


Princess Knight Sigalda

by SlutWriter



Category: Original Work
Genre: Ahegao, Bestiality, Breeding, Cock Worship, Degradation, Dirty Talk, Excessive Semen, F/M, Fantasy, Femmeboi, Gangbang, Gokkun, Hentai, Horse cock, Hung Shota, Hypnosis, Incest, Lactation, Lolicon, M/M, Mind Break, Multi, Nipple Fuck, Other, Oviposition, Pregnant, Rape, Shotacon, Smegma, Tentacle, Verbal Abuse, huge cock, huge tits, mom/son, ntr, rimjob, urethra fuck
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-12
Updated: 2019-11-12
Packaged: 2021-01-29 11:55:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 6
Words: 77,245
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21409786
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SlutWriter/pseuds/SlutWriter
Summary: Troubled times have overtaken the Kingdom of Zwei. Rebels rise and seek to overthrow the crown, and they have a grudge against the royal family, especially the young, beautiful Princess Knight Sigalda, foremost swordswoman of the realm. What will happen to her when they take power?An homage Inspired by "Himekishi" hentai anime and other works such as Kuroinu.
Comments: 8
Kudos: 104





	1. Episode 1 (Subbed)

“Tomorrow, I ride to the Outskirts,” Sigalda said, her voice emanating from behind a decorative screen that zig-zagged vertically in four parts, each etched with the White Lion heraldry of the Zwei Kingdom. “Ein, you must look after mother while I am gone.” She was dressing, applying the leather straps that served as the basis for her armor. The most intimate parts she could handle herself, but for her heavy gauntlets and boots, the help of her two squires would be required. Ein, one of these, was also her younger brother, and crown prince of Zwei.

“They say the reaches are burning, sister,” replied the boy, and his wide blue eyes and quavering tone belied the concern in his voice. He was coming of age, but his body seemed in no rush to grow broad and deep. Rather, he had his sister’s grace and platinum blonde hair but lacked her dark complexion and martial prowess. She had tried to teach him, but Ein was not a natural warrior and, indeed, tended to whine when physically pressed. “Marauders gather and denounce noble rule. Must thee truly visit such a place?”

“Don’t trouble thyself with worries,” came Sigarda’s response. “A magistrate has been pilloried, or so they say.” She sounded slightly distracted, concentrated on arranging the various buckled and straps that held her armor fast to her frame. “Duncan, my gauntlets!”

The darker-skinned boy stepped forward with the gleaming armored gloves in his arms. He was a taller lad and more physically gifted than Ein, but not of noble birth, and wore a stove pot on his head in an imitation of knighthood, an office to which he aspired and dreamed but could never, because of his low origin, fulfill. “Here, Princess,” he announced, and then stepped around the screen, knowing that she would not call for him if she weren’t ‘decent’ but hoping nonetheless to see as much as he could.

Sigarda had already tied the leather straps about herself and donned the metal brassiere than kept her prodigiously large, caramel-colored breasts in check. Down below, her crotch was covered, but barely, by a triangular pie-wedge of metal suspended by more leather that wrapped around to form a thong that seperated her round buttocks in twain. Helping Sigarda to put her armor on was always the best part of Duncan’s day, which included washing dishes, sweeping floors, beating rugs, and running messages and letters about the parapets and to the surrounding noble houses.

“Duncan, why do you stare!?” came a sharp voice, and the boy was startled out of his woolgathering and grew flustered at Sigarda’s severe expression. Beautiful as she might be, the Princess was known to have a fiery temper, and her scantily clad body, athletic and showing visible muscle definition about the midriff, back and shoulders, promised that she had the physicality to back up her displeasure.

“I don’t! I mean, I only… your boobs are huge!”

Duncan gulped as Sigarda’s eyes grew alight with fury. What had he said? In his nervousness, he’d uttered aloud what he’d only been thinking!

“Brat!” she cursed, clouting him about his makeshift stewpot helmet with her fist. “Who told thee to say such things?”

“E-everyone!” Duncan stammered, unsure of what to do. “The whole castle knows you’ve got a huge set of milk ta-whoooooooaaaa!”

He’d tripped over his own feet as she lunged at him, dropping the gauntlets and scrambling away while Sigarda snorted and chased him around the room, she a lithe and sinewy young warrior woman in near-undress, he a boy of tender years, running for his life. Ein only stood, face red, with Sigalda’s large metal knee boots beside him, trying to calm the situation.

“S-sister! Duncan! Thee mustn’t fight!” he wailed, but it was to no avail.

“Out!” Sigalda ordered, her mouth tucked into a snarl, pointing to the door of her chambers, having given up chasing the sprightly and rangy teen boy, who through his mischief had great experience in dodging upset nobles. “Ein shall help me dress! To the kitchen with thee, to the cook!”

And so Duncan left, showing only his pot-helmet and the neck-length brown hair underneath as he zipped around the corner, leaving Sigalda to shake her head and Ein look at her doubtfully. “He means well,” the smaller boy offered. “Sometimes our adopted brother is just… a bit silly.”

“He teases,” Sigalda grumbled, returning to her dressing screen. “And his wish to be knighted is the genesis of’t.” She lapsed into thought, having sensed that Duncan had started to grow apart from the two true-blooded children of the Zwei line ever since the King, her father, had died not months before. Part of it was growing up into a man, encountering limits imposed by his birth for the first time. To further complicate matters, the King had doted on Duncan, while Cordelia, Sigalda’s mother, favored Ein.

Bad times could be coming.

“Ein, my boots!” she ordered, and watched as the effeminate blonde young prince struggled with the weight of them. “Really, I mustn’t be the strongest in the family!”

Yes, family. Her cute, limp-wristed blood brother in line for the crown, her mother seemingly in perpetual melancholic mourning, and her adopted brother aspiring above his station. Best to take care of the business in the outskirts quickly, Sigalda reasoned, the sooner to return home and make sense of the whole mess.

\- 2 -

  
  
  
  
There were perhaps a hundred people gathered around the Outskirts gallows to witness the execution of Magistrate Justinian. He was a rotund man with a keg belly, still clad in the lace-ruffled cerements of his office, his sweaty moon face making no effort to hide his obvious terror. The noose was about his neck, and with outraged peasants and militia on all sides, there was no doubt he would soon make the drop. To the assembled, his corpulence was but more proof of how he had filled his mouth and coffers even as they had gone without, losing their children to a hard winter. His long, well-tailored jacket was of red velvet with a herringbone pattern about the buttons, standing out like a flash of fire amidst the uniform earth-tones of his captors. As far as the Outskirts were concerned, he would go to his dying with that jacket about his shoulders. It would moulder in a shroud of leaves when a better harvest returned.  
  
“You dare assault a representative of the crown?” Justinian warbled, his jowls flapping like disturbed hens. “Knaves! To treat me so, who held thee to the royal bosom and cared for thee as a father for his children!” His voice was deep and cultured, accustomed to public speaking, yet it held panic in it, being so close to a long drop and a sudden stop. He stood on the very gallows he himself had ordered built, upon which any number of heretics and thieves had been punished by his proclamation.  
  
“Fuck you, you fat fuck!” someone cried, and a rotten piece of fruit sailed from the assembled crowd and pelted Justinian’s dirt-stained doublet and blouse. The rogue who had placed the noose around his neck, name of Graves, was ruddy-faced and hard-eyed as any killer, a cutter and a broad-tosser, and he grabbed Justinian’s grey and thinning hair then, pulling his head back and drawing a yelp from the shorter, fatter man.  
  
“The fucking servants of the crown have ass-fucked us for too long!” he roared to the crowd, and there was a roar of approval from the crowd. His accent was sharp, rough, uncultured. “This hog has filled his gut while our children starved!”  
  
“Aye!” came the roar from the crowd, and Graves, hooded and sinister, with a scar trailing down one cheek, the clear impact of a knife, lending to his dangerous appearance.  
  
“Lies!” shouted Justinian. “The needful and their children found respite always with me! I see faces in this very crowd who begged and were given to eat from my own personal stores!”  
  
“Women, you mean!” an old crone cried, and pelted Justinian with a rock-hard chunk of stale bread. “Women you starved until they spread their legs for a bit of lamb stew!” And the cries renewed, a cloaked and hooded mob with jaundice in their eyes and sores on their mouths, starving and angry. There could be no doubt they had gathered to see the popping of noble necks, the spilling of noble blood.  
  
“Eat shit, whoremaster of the crown!” a wild-eyed man added. “You fucked my daughter, you fucking fucker, for but a basket of tubers! Now her belly is big with your bastard, and who will feed it with our coffers and cellars empty as your own lard-soaked soul?” He reared back and pelted a stone. Justinian, with his hands tied securely behind his broad back, could not protect himself, and the missile smote his cheek and left a weal.  
  
“Alright, old dad,” Graves intoned in his gravelly voice, manhandling Justinian over the trapdoor. “Time for the air dance.” The crowd was alight and he judged it was time, before they decided to gain the scaffold and tear the fat noble apart with their bare hands. They were trappers, carvers, wheelwrights and horsemen, drovers and farmers, chandlers and sawyers and miners, people used to working with their hands.  
  
Justinian burbled and whined with fright, but his shackled legs offered little resistance to the younger and more powerful man. The din of the crowd lulled as each held their breath for Graves’ signal to the lever-puller, another of his resistance who would consummate Justinian’s death with a whip and snap of ropes and the drop of a hinge. Neither Graves nor this other wore executioner’s hoods, for their was no shame or stigma in the act of killing a noble in the Outskirts. Things had gotten so bad, so hardscrabble, so anguished, that noble blood on a man’s hands was a badge of pride.  
  
Yet before the order could be given, a voice rang out like a clarion from the center of the crowd. It came from figure of medium height in an all-concealing hooded cloak. “Tarry and consider!” the concealed mouth cried. “For this brutal ‘justice’ contemplated, may be revisited upon thee!”  
  
The crowd took a step back from the newcomer. The hood of the cloak was deep, and concealed much of the face; a clear-complexioned mouth, without sores, without dirt, a sharp nose, and several spikes of blonde hair emerging near the collar were the physical only clues to accompany the proclamation. Yet the new voice was that of a riled woman, strangely, and the speech was the noble tongue, used at court and ceremony. “One chance shall be granted thee, to return home without violence, and restore thyselves to the authority of the crown.”  
  
“Sympathizer!” crowed a dirty-haired man, and he produced a horseshoeing tool with a tied-on metal spike quick as a trick. The people of the outskirts were not permitted weapons of war, but many had found that a miner’s pick, a hunter’s bow, a farmer’s fork or even a hostler’s gelding knife could serve more than well. “We’ll fuckin’ string you up with with ‘im!”  
  
Others seemed compelled by his cry to make the attempt, and they began to crowd around the cloaked figure again, this time with anticipatory, combative stances. Before they could pounce, the cloak was thrown off in a whirlwind that confused their eyes and stirred up the moisture of the muddy square, revealing none other than Princess Knight Sigalda, the Bronze Lioness, knight-captain of the military arm of the nobility and foremost female child of the royal family.  
  
“The Lioness!” cried one of the farmers, clutching a pitchfork like a defensive talisman. “Now whatta we fuckin’ do?  
  
“You will _die_,” answered Sigalda, and swept the greatsword _Alsansam_ in a circular arc, beheading the nearest ring of onlookers. It was a massive weapon, beyond the power of any normal man to weird without two hands in a stout grip, but she did it with one, her strength and speed bolstered by the ancient training of her order, whirlwinding in a balletic opera of death. Heads popped and rolled, falling into the dirt with expressions of fear and astoundment locked in their eyes. A dozen necks spewed blood upward in arterial bursts that splattered both Sigarda and the next wave.  
  
“I’ll skullfuck you, you fuckin’ whore!” roared the town butcher, swinging a cleaver with murderous intent. She drove Alsansam clean through his chest with a brutal thrust, his blood masking her bouncing, barely-covered breasts in a haze, then kicked him off the skewer with her armored foot, sending him careening into the others. Rocks bounced off of her oversized gauntlets, and the stabbing, chopping masses who approached from the opposite side suddenly found Sigarda to be not there, their blows falling on thin air as she retreated with martial perfection to the underside of the scaffold. A prostitute went for her eye with a knitting needle, but was caught by one mud-covered wrist. Sigalda put two hands to her head and twisted it until the bones snapped like bonfire twigs, then let her slump to the ground.  
  
“Kill her! Kill her!” they chanted, and arrows from archers on the surrounding rooftops impacted the topside of the scaffold, reinforcing that ducking under it had been a wide decision. With a sweeping slash, Sigalda cried out and severed one of the support posts, sending a side of the entire wooden structure tilting to the ground, putting her back to the down-tapered edge, facing the dozens who were closing in on her with their improvised weapons - pitchforks and meathooks, rocks and lengths of wood.  
  
“The house of Zwei ends here!” a wide-eyed farmer cried, stabbing forward. Sigalda dodged and severed his head from his shoulders. His body, with its rustic manure-stained overalls, staggered forward perhaps two more steps and slumped down. From the side came the warbling scream of a wirey ruffian, rushing her with a shard of broken lantern glass. It was easy for her to cave in his face with the armored elbow of her long gauntlet, sending his teeth down his throat like scattered dice. Yet it was Graves who was the true rogue, the assassin’s guild member and the real threat, she had marked him as such immediately. He was the one she wanted, and the one she intended to bring back to the central district, to suffer a fate much like the one he’d had planned for Magistrate Justinian.  
  
Sigalda burst forward and sheared away a half-dozen more people, their bodies scissoring in half at the waist and vanishing into a red haze. Her skin had gone from bronze to crimson, dripping with blood and sweat, and her platinum hair was soaked, turned the color of a rooster’s comb. Still they came at her, their eyes wide with rebellion and the resolute darkness of having no other choice, and for the first time she hesitated.  
  
_Why do they still fight? Do they not realize they will die? Do they not realize Alsansam’s might and the might of the Knights of the Order of the White Lion?_  
  
“Noble pig!” growned a gap-toothed man who smelled of spirits, his torn shirt belaying a day spent lying in the gutter. “I’ll string your guts up for curtains!” He was gone before the alcoholic scent of his breath had passed, cut down, and followed by a dozen more just as foolish. Yet as Sigalda emerged from beneath the scaffold and stepped over the pile of bodies and into the muck of the thoroughfare, Graves had vanished. An arrow flashed from above and Sigalda reacted with in human speed, holding the flat of her blade before her face to deflect it. The bows were poorly made and the velocity low, but that is not what saved her. Her enemies did not know, and could not have understood, that the magical blade Alsansam allowed her to sense even the slightest disturbance in the air - arrow, quill, dagger, dirk, or blade - and react with godlike precision.  
  
She leapt to the roof in one bound, clearing twenty feet, and the archer’s surprised face was all he could express before he was cut down and his remains sent thumping to the street. It was a jump that no human could make, and yet she did it easily, buoyed by the enchanted blade and her attunement to it, the curation of which made up a large part of her training. Alsansam, an object of power, was a tool like any other, and not for the use of the unworthy or unpracticed. Gazing down from her vantage, Sigalda scanned the running, cowering crowd for Graves, and saw him amongst part of the retreating rabble, turning his collar and pulling down his hood against her prying eyes but a few seconds too late.  
  
She leapt again, from the roof this time, and landed amidst the crowd with such thunder that the wounded scaffold collapsed nearby and rebels were scattered in all directions. Graves was among those affected, and even in the clamor she kept track of him from the muddy crater she’d created, knowing he would gain his feet quickly, as was the assassin’s trademark, knowing he would come for her with dagger in his hand and a poisoned needle in his mouth should the first method fail. She closed her eyes for a split second.  
  
_He will be… here!_  
  
She turned. Graves’ abdomen-seeking dagger broke on the hilt of her sword. Her bracer deflected the needle. And then with a roar, she swung Alsansam out and up, removing his blocking arm from the bicep outward, and cutting a deep furrow in the storefront behind them. It was done.  
  
She knelt next to him as he spat up blood, his wounded arm seeping ever more of the stuff. The fight was over, the rebels and their sympathizers scattered, dozens lay dead or dying. Graves’ eyes rolled toward her and he began to laugh hauntingly in between blood-flecked coughs.  
  
“The Lioness of Zwei,” he said. “To finally be this close and in such a sorry state!” He broke out into coughs again, and Sigalda looked impassively at him.  
  
“I can offer thee a clean death,” she said. “For sedition and rebellion against the crown, no better fate awaits thee.”  
  
Graves coughed up more blood. He was not long for the world in any case, and knew it. He looked at Sigalda’s youthful but stern face, and laughed. “You fool,” he said, and his eyes rolled north and skyward, to what part of the blue he could see from his low vantage. “This was a feint. We allowed… we allowed word of Justinian’s capture to reach the castle in hope of drawing you out!” He broke out into harsher coughs, thick with blood. Sigalda scanned the sky, and saw the hints of smoke in the distance, from the north, the direction of the inner sanctum, the nobility, and the royals. Her face immediately grew concerned and angry.  
  
“Cur! Confess thy plans!” she ordered, gripping Graves by the collar. “Are rebel armies on the march to Zwei Castle?”  
  
Graves’ eyes softened as he motioned her closer, his last breaths growing weak, indicating he could not speak but whisper. “I… have but one thing… before I die…” he said. Sigalda leaned in, wanting, needing to know whatever piece of information Graves could give her… but as she did so, his remaining arm snaked out, grasped under the armor plate of her metal brassiere, and groped one of her large breasts. He squeezed the lewd, bulging titmeat with relish and ran a thumb over her pink nipple, seeming to enjoy every lewd second of contact before she pulled away.  
  
“Now,” he croaked, laughing, “Having felt those huge fuckin’ brown-skinned tits of yours, I can die a happy man.”  
  
Barring her teeth, Sigalda reared back and punched his face as hard as she could, granting his request.  
  
  
  


\- 3 -

  
  
  
Though she rode quickly and covered two days journey in less than eighteen hours, Sigalda was not able to approach the castle on her way back north. She was met several miles out by two dozen rebel riders who bore her a message, sealed by the royal signet and signed in the hand of her mother, Queen Cordelia.  
  
_My Daughter Sigalda,_  
_Zwei Castle has fallen, and rebels control the inner sanctum. The Prince and others at court are held hostage to your cooperation. You must surrender Alsansam to the riders at the wall and go peaceably to the castle, where we await. I write this communication on pain of death if you do not come, and in the low tongue, so that the riders who carry it may read it and know its contents attempt no trickery._  
  
_Please heed me. Together we may yet find a solution to these events that spares our way of life._  
  
_Queen Cordelia Zwei IX_  
  
As the handwriting was true and the wax signet correct, she had little reason to doubt that he mother was under the control of the rebels, and it was with more than a twinge of loss that she allowed the cloaked and hooded men on their dark steeds to take Alsansam and wrap it in a leather swaddle for transport back to the castle. Along the remaining miles she rode between them, twelve riders in front and twelve behind, all with spears and crossbows at the ready should she deviate course.  
  
What Sigalda saw along the way shocked and dismayed her. Many lay dead in the cobblestone streets of the capital, and rebels ran to and fro, looting the stately houses that grew more and more ornate as they approached city center. Many of the army of Zwei had fought and died, but many seemed to have deserted and joined the rebels, perhaps in fulfillment of a long-held plan promising new lands and titles in a new aristocracy, or some other arrangement. They were also looting, even while wearing their symbol of the White Lion on their tabards, a sight that made Sigalda sick. She heard cries from the alleys as displaced noblewomen were raped by gangs of cloaked and hooded thugs, some victimized in their own homes. In one place, a dozen or more women had been gathered in a square, stripped of clothes, and spat on by their former bondsmen and servants, who had labored long on their behalf and at little money. There was a black, rotting hatred to the interactions between the two groups, a base and vengeful quality, that made Sigalda shudder. Did the low-born really hate them… hate her… so much? Her mind went back to the prostitute who had tried to take her eye.  
  
Things were less chaotic, but more ominous, around the castle. Dagger-wielding rebels and ruddy spearman had taken up guardposts where once the white-armored Knights of Zwei had stood, and they watched her pass through with wary eyes, chewing and spitting on the ground, leering at her like wild dogs after a wounded bird. Every so often she would see the body of a footman or a knight she recognized, doubled over in their own blood, surrounded by stone-faced men who showed her nothing but contempt. And the throne room, her final destination, was worst of all.  
  
Seated on the throne, where her father had once sat before his death, was a stubble-chinned ruffian with a leering expression and an assassin’s countenance. His clothes were plain and unfit for the office, a simple shirt unbuttoned to reveal his rudy chest, a scarlet sash about his waist into which two daggers were tucked. His boots were crusted with dried mud, and yet the cur saw fit to, in his languid stance, place one foot upon the throne’s cushion, like a tosspot taking his leave. Beside him sat her mother Queen Cordelia, with tears staining her cheeks. She wore a flowing white dress, low-cut in the front as was her custom at court. Though Sigalda had often been teased by her underlings and servants (and mythologized by the masses) for having large breasts, it was her mother who sported the most enormous set in the family - each one easily larger than a man’s head and flawlessly formed. Cordelia had been renowned for her charity and the nurturing hand with which she cradled even the most unfortunate of the noble class, this image of the fertile mother seemed to be reflected in her physical appearance.  
  
Aside from these two in a position of prominence, there were dozens of others about court. Ein and Duncan were under guard, standing against the wall and surrounded by spear-wielding insurgents. No doubt their fates were also hostage to the demands of the rebellion. The four other female knights of the Order of the White Lion had suffered the most egregious indignity; they had been stripped of armor and fitted with leather leashes, and were being kept in a pack in the corner of the room, ordered to rest on all fours with heads bowed. A thick-bellied rebel, smiling through crooked teeth and a thick moustache, held their leashes as a houndmaster would hold his pack. Old Galain, the white-bearded swordsmanship trainer who had instructed them all since they were girls, was pressed at knife-point against a wall, made to watch their humiliation.  
  
“At last the guest of honor arrives!” the throne-bound ruffian called, and gave a sarcastic clap that mocked the daintiness of the royal court. “Princess Sigalda, the bronze-skinned lioness. I am truly in the presence of greatness.”  
  
“Pig! You _dare_ to do this?!” Sigalda cried out, gesturing toward the female knights. She knew them well, each beautiful and young, each a different hair color, each assigned to steward a different quadrant of the realm. Bertina of the Northwest, raven-haired and a falconer of some skill, a huntress without peer and wielder of the legendary bow, _Gomoddka_, was perhaps second only to Sigalda in status as a warrior… but forced to stay prone, her large breasts pressed against the carpet and her round, pale, athletic ass in the air, she did not look it. Indeed, all four proud female warriors were in positions of indecency, with their pussies exposed and being leered at from the back by their captors.  
  
“You may address me as Starr,” the man replied, easily. “And if I may fuckin’ presume to use your noble speech, it would be a duty dangerous of thee to forgo.” He gestured toward where Ein and Duncan stood, and a nearby operative produced a dagger and held it to the effeminate young prince’s throat, drawing a squeak and causing his expressive, long-lashed eyes to fill with fright. Dressed in an embroidered tunic and sheer tights that couldn’t help but show off a thin, soft body devoid of muscle, Ein looked more like a dancer than an heir to the throne. Yet his small stature earned him no quarter from his jailor, and the knife drew a trickle of blood as it pressed into his young throat.  
  
“Torment him no more!” Sigalda cried back. “He is heir to the bloodline of Zwei. Harm him, and our allies will destroy thee! Ancient treaties bind the Mage Kingdom of Garavant to action, measures of statecraft beyond the reach of this pathetic rebellion!”  
  
But a voice interrupted, old and wretched, emanating from a black-robed figure who had been skulking behind the very throne itself. It was a woman, painfully thin and wasted, almost more lizard than human. “Garavant shall not intervene,” she cackled with some mirth. “For even as your family had ancient bargains, new ones were forged.”  
  
Sigalda blinked. “You talk nonsense, old witch!” she objected. What a gallery of strange peoples had come to infest her late father’s throne room! Yet the hunched and wretched crone showed no fear, and approached Sigalda then, moving with difficulty while leaning on a twisted, aged cane.  
  
  
“Ye shall not speak so to Agatha Wormwood, who holds the ear of the Mage Council,” she said, her voice like the peeling of old husks. Sigalda furrowed her brow with surprise that might have been cute on a less martial woman. It was a name she had heard before, mostly in stories more likely to be untrue - a shadow figure of the dark arts who walked behind the Garavant Castle walls.  
  
“You are not she,” Sigalda said, hesitantly, but the words had no strength.  
  
Agatha’s golden eyes widened, showing wild, dangerous insanity. “Ah, but I am!” she replied, and then reached out one boney hand to grope roughly at Sigalda’s breast, reaching beneath the scant protection of her bikini-plates to hold the full measure of titmeat. Sigalda could have caught her wrist, broken it like a twig, but to do so would risk a spear in the spine, not to mention her brother’s throat cut, if even a fraction of what Starr and the old woman said were true. Instead she took a sharp inhale of breath, bit her lip, and endured.  
  
“Sensitive, aren’t they?” the crone taunted, and ran her thumb over the nipple. “And standing pert like a fisherman’s cock on market morn!” She cackled again, and fixed Sigalda with an accusatory gaze. “I think ye like this, don’t ye? Has yer high-and-mighty bitchbox seen so little use it’d grow heated at the touch of an old woman?”  
  
This insult _did_ cause Sigalda to slap the hand away, and Agatha squawked even as the spears of Sigalda’s captors pressed their points into lower back. The old woman’s wart-pocked face took on a vicious look at once, and she seethed through crooked yellow teeth. “Ye brown-skinned bitch! Ye shall learn to love the touch of those even fouler than me. For if Garavant is to claim this land, the bloodline of Zwei must be thinned, as one adds water to a an over-salted stew!”  
  
She turned to Starr, who was watching the scene with remote interest, a thug observing the fineries of negotiation without much understanding. His role had always been that of the murderer and the fist. The defiler and vandal, rather than the conqueror. “Do as ye will,” Agatha said, and spat on the ground next to Sigalda, offering one final nasty look as she hobbled back to her place near the throne. The ruffian passed Agatha and walked to within a foot’s distance of the princess, who stood shorter than he, for he was a tall man, gaunt, as if build of razor wire. When his muddy brown eyes met her blue ones, there was enmity in the air.  
  
“Get on your knees,” he said, keeping eye contact.  
  
Sigalda’s eyes seemed to burst alight. “Never! I’d sooner kneel before than devil himself than thee!” Her chest was heaving with rage, causing her sweat-dappled breasts to rise and fall enticingly in their armored cradles. Her diaphragm moved to take in air, her defined abdominals buoyed up and down and yet never losing their glistening allure. Her thighs and hips seemed tensed to pounce, a state that showed more than ever their thickness and well-shaped athleticism. She was never more beautiful than when in battle, never more seductive than when enraged. Her blonde hair poured down over her neck like a spiked shroud.  
  
Starr seemed to recognize this, and took his time admiring her form. His swordarm fell to his side, then extended a finger to run along her thigh, gathering the sweat there on one digit before raising it to his mouth, tasting her, always keeping intense eye contact. “Fuckin’ good,” he said, his smile widening. “How many young nobles have dampened their beds dreaming of licking the sweat off of your big, round ass, princess?” Sigalda barred her teeth. Starr stared her down, and then said. “I told you to kneel. Are you fuckin’ deaf, in addition to being a fine, dark-skinned slut?”  
  
“I won’t!” Sigalda hissed. “The crown shall never-”  
  
For the first time Starr looked away, as if disinterested in her defiance, and waved a hand at the men who were overseeing the members of the Order of the White Lion. His hand pointed to Bertina. “Cut her throat,” he said, and as his order was followed, a dozen voices rose at once in the throne room. Sigalda and Old Galain, as well as the Queen, cried out in tones of negation, each with some version of _‘No, wait!’_. Bertina drew in one breath and cried out for Sigalda in her final moment. It was to no avail - the order was executed by a dagger drawn across her windpipe, and she collapsed to the floor, her dark hair mercifully obscuring her face.  
  
The cries rose even higher then, and Sigalda tried to burst from her central place in the room to comfort her fallen sister, but was restrained by the rough hands of her spear-wielding escorts. It took four of them, hooking their arms into her armpits and behind her thighs, to hold her back. The display of casual death and violence had sent the intended message - that the agents of the rebellion would not hesitate to shed the blood of nobles, that Starr was a man who expected his orders to be obeyed.  
  
“_Monster! I will kill you_!” Sigalda roared at Starr, still restrained. Every muscle and tendon in her sculpted body seemed to stand out, and but for the four men, Starr would have had a fight on his hands, even absent the magical aid of _Alsansam_. She wanted to wring the life from him for the cruel murder of Bertina, but was forced to her knees by rough and roaming hands instead, and looked up at Starr with such an expression of hate that it could scarcely be described. The spearmen looked down on her with jackal smiles matched by their commanding officer.  
  
“Heed my fuckin’ orders,” the Starr growled down at her, “Or the next throat cut could be that the young prince.” There was no sound for a moment but Sigalda’s furious breath, and then he went on. “Kneel, and don’t make the boys force you. You make ‘em force you and they’re liable to get forcing pretty hard.” Her eyes burned a hole in his angular, stubbled face, but when their hands fell away from her shoulders, she did not lunge, only knelt, greaves to carpet, legs medium-width apart. Her smooth shoulders rose and fell beneath their spaulders in time with her furious breath.  
  
“Get that shit off of her,” Starr ordered his men, flicking a finger against her large, long gauntlets. “And bring that old fuck over here, her teacher. For this prideful cunt may need an additional demonstration of our resolve.” The queen let out a moan of dismay and put a hand to her mouth, so hear Sigalda so crudely described was an indignity on top of those already suffered by her court. The usurper, Starr, had truly described the Lioness of Zwei as a ‘cunt’ - a term used only for the working parts of prostitutes, a low speech forbidden at court. She looked on with worry, sharing an uncertain glance with her daughter as Old Galain was dragged front and center in the room, still physically fit even at the age of sixty or more. All the while, Sigalda was relieved of her armguards, greaves and boots, leaving only the leather straps and tiny metal plates of her brazier and thong.  
  
“You are her swordsmanship teacher, yeah?” Starr briskly asked Galain. For a moment the man didn’t respond, as if doing so would somehow dirty his tongue. He had bushy grey eyebrows, a a well-trimmed beard running his cheeks and jawline. From his expression, one could tell he considered Starr to be the lowest of the low, but in the end, he decided to communicate with the man, lest more bloodshed result.  
  
“Aye.”  
  
“Not a noble?”  
  
“Aye, not a noble. Like my father I am a bondsman, who swore fealty and service to the crown.”  
  
Starr laughed. “Quite an adventure for you, old man, to be kept in the castle as a pet and let out among the blooded to give your fuckin’ lessons.”  
  
Galain put his hand over his heart. “It is no indignity to me. For I have cared for and counseled the Knights of the White Lion as if they were my own daughters.” He paused, then added. “Perhaps you yourself could do with instruction. In loyalty.”  
  
Starr glowered. “The nobility showed no such loyalty when my own wife and daughters were taken by the winter. They died while the pig aristocracy allowed surplus grain to fuckin’ rot rather than give it away to those without means.” He stepped up to Galain aggressively, nose to nose. “Now listen, old dad, and listen well. Your defiance will not earn you the easy way out. We’ll kill every one of your knight-daughters, your trainees, your servants. We’ll rape them first. And only after they’re all raped and dead will I order your own leathery throat slit. The only sign you need to fuckin’ make that you understand is to fuckin’ shut up and do what I say.” The two warriors were close enough to each feel the breath of the other, Starr cruel and severe, Galain grizzled and resolute. The older man was silent. Contempt passed between him and Starr in a bristling, barely-concealed wave.  
  
“You taught the princess all she knows of swordplay?” Starr went on.  
  
“Aye. Now, she surpasses even my skill.”  
  
Starr smirked. “Well, you’re in luck, old man. She must now learn a new type of fuckin’ swordplay, and you’re going to teach her again in front of everyone here.” He reached out to grab at Sigalda’s blonde hair, pulling her head toward the crotch of Galain’s trousers, drawing a cry of protest from several.  
  
“Get him off,” Starr ordered.  
  
Sigalda’s eyes went wide and blue. “W-what!?” She was not the only one in the room to gasp, for the nude, prone female knights added their voices to the chorus, as did the queen.  
  
“You heard me. I want you to fish your teacher’s old, grey cock out of his breeches and take care of him.”  
  
“You whore’s son!” Galain growled at Starr. “Have you no decency?”  
  
Sigalda simply looked back and forth from Starr, to Galain, to the button-fly crotch of Galain’s wool trousers. She could not refuse to act on pain of death for her sisters, and yet could not will herself to proceed! Old Galain, who had served as a mentor to her, watched her grow and develop… it was utterly obscene to imagine taking his prick in her hand! Of course she knew men had such things, and were driven by them to all manner of madness and impropriety. At court, she had been utterly bored when debate came to titles, lines of secession and what to do with all of the bastards the noblemen were making with their mistresses. Young Duncan - dark-skinned like her and more able to the task than Ein - was one such bastard, the child of a castle menial and an unnamed nobleman. But to do this, in full view of her mother, brother, and fellow knights… it was too much!  
  
Five seconds passed. The queen looked on forlornly, seemingly powerless to intervene, and those under guard gnashed their teeth. Then Starr again waved a hand at the knight-captains under guard, as he had done when poor Bertina had met her end. “Slit her throa-”  
  
  
“W-wait!” Sigalda cried, and brought her hands to Galain’s fly, beginning to fumble with the buttons. “Stay your blade, for god’s sake!” Her face was a far cry from intimidating in the moment, replaced by a harried and desperate girl in a panic. Galain’s lined, aged face reddened with embarrassment as her agile hands prodded and poked around his penis, attempting to fish it out.  
  
“Sigalda, you mustn’t-”  
  
Sigalda shook her head with frustration and shame, her breasts bobbing in their sculpted steel brassiere as she reached ever further into . “There must be no more cut throats, Uncle, I must bear it, if- auuugh!”  
  
With a fleshy flopping noise, a swollen length of flaccid meat flopped out directly in Sigalda’s determined face, and her eyes went comically wide. It was pale, large, and criss-crossed with prominent veins. A heavy foreskin wrapped the end, and the entire apparatus was surrounded by a bush of grey pubic hair, inside which the fleshy parts nested. Indeed, Galain’s saggy, low-hanging balls looked like two plump eggs falling from the roost. Instinctively, Sigalda pulled her hand away, beholding the phallus with something like horror.  
  
The assembled rebels laughed at the expression on her face, while the noble captives averted their eyes with shame. No onlooker could deny the truth of the situation - the untouchable Princess Sigalda had just pulled her low-born teacher’s fat, hairy dick out and allowed it to flop in her young face like a just-caught fish. The other female knights, bare and humiliated already, dropped their eyes even further, seeing Sigalda’s nostrils flare, knowing she was getting a whiff of hot, unwashed cock stench from a man old enough to be her father, a grey-haired warrior who had started her on the training blade when she’d been just ten years old.  
  
“Old dad’s joint seems like it hasn’t seen action in a few years, but I’m sure you can stir him up, Princess,” Starr taunted, looking down with playful disdain. “After all, that body of yours has sent many a young lad’s first ship to sea with hull full of jizzum. I’ll give you, say… five minutes. Five minutes to relieve him, before a throat gets cut-”  
  
“Five!?” Sigalda objected, her face moving from embarrassed to indignant.  
  
“Then we will see how good a teacher your ‘Uncle’ is,” Starr went on. “His instruction will fuckin’ guide you, big-titted princess, and as the clock is ticking down right now, I suggest you fuckin’ get started.”  
  
Galain offered one final objection, perhaps appealing to Starr’s sense of fairness. “Please, in conditions such as these, no man of my age could… what you ask is impossible!” But Starr simply shook his head.  
  
“Four minutes, forty-five seconds,” he said, fingering one of the daggers tucked in his rogue’s sash. “I keep count in my head, you see. You’d best pray I don’t miss a tick here or there. Which throat will be slit next, I wonder? The redhead? The brunette? A shame to waste such bodies in the name of fuckin’ violence, but sometimes a fella needs to make his point more than once-”  
  
Gulping back a lump in her throat, Sigalda reached up with her hand to Galain’s crotch, gripping the hanging member experimentally. She turned her face half-away sullenly, disgusted by her own participation in the act. The flesh was hot and pulsing in her hand. Her cheeks showed a red blush, and, unable to make eye contact with the organ, she began to hesitantly stroke it, moving her hand back toward the base and then out toward the tip in a milking motion she imagined might do the trick. The flaccid length seemed doughy and unresponsive to her touch, sagging and stretching with each jerk in its unkempt forest of pubes.  
  
Every set of eyes in the room was on Sigalda, but the way each took in the sordid sight was different, and telling. Queen Cordelia watched, dead-eyed and defeated, as her daughter was made to jerk a cock in her kingdom’s most hallowed hall. As if drugged, she seemed to have no more energy to object or change events. Since her husband’s passing from illness she had felt rudderless and lost even in the best of times. Now, this terrible scene attacked her mind, a mind already tormented by loss, and seemed to verify that a curse had befallen her land and loved ones. Below her blank stare, her breasts bulged like fair-day pumpkins in the embroidered white fabric of her robe.  
  
Ein and Duncan were being forced to watch, stout hands about their young heads and a stern warning whispered in their ears not to flinch and to take in every detail. As was ever the case for them, the boys’ reactions differed as much as their personalities. Ein was overwhelmed, quaking, his large eyes welling with tears. He had always been in awe of his sister, and to see her reduced to such a humiliating act was a terrible shock. The sight of Old Galain’s penis reminded the boy that he too had such a member in his britches, which sometimes stood stiffly upright upon waking. His was small, though, and lacked the bushy hair. Watching, seeing the difference in anatomy, being restrained by ruffians, he felt at once he was an ineffectual child, even as the heir to the throne. Next to him, young Duncan’s expression was different, his eyes seemed to be taking everything in with a hunger to experience and understand. Brown-haired and ruddy-skinned as any low-born, Duncan had more in common physically with the rebels than the nobility, and saw in their gaunt, merciless faces a hunger for violence and new experiences that reflected his own. No one had noticed that during Bertina’s murder he had watched most avidly, taking in every detail. That was the truth and glory of conflict that Duncan had long-wished to experience, even as weapons and training had been denied him as a bonded servant. The bloody stuff. His face was filled with not horror, but anticipation, that he might have a part to play at last.  
  
Agatha Wormwood of Garavant was also watching, and licked her lips lewdly with anticipation, as if the opening curtain of the show had been drawn and the best was yet to come. “Yer no great hand with a cock, missy,” she mumbled to herself, “but I think time’ll show you much improved!” Though long past the age for such things - the dried up old crone was 100 years if she was a day - anyone observing her body language would have thought she was getting a perverse physical pleasure from the proceedings. Her billowy black cassock fluttered about a body that seemed formless beneath, devoid of any alluring nubs, peaks and valleys if they’d ever been there in the first place, her chin pocked with warts and even sporting a few scraggly old-woman whiskers.  
  
The ones who made the most noise about Sigalda’s handjob were the rank-and-file rebels who had no reason to hide their pleasure at her debasement. The three dozen in the throne room taunted and jeered as she went about her work. In their previous lives as simple citizens, Sigalda had been known as the most untouchable prize in the entire kingdom, earning their awe and hatred with equal measure. Every man who saw her at work feared her and spoke in hushed tones about the warrior princess who enforced the noble will, slaying those labeled ‘unjust’, starving men forced into banditry. And in those hushed whispers, there was not a ruffian among them who hadn’t mentioned her shapely breasts, thick ass, and graceful form with a sort of longing. Many of the men chosen for Starr’s personal unit were close to the rebellion and had lost brothers and fathers to Sigalda’s blade. They wanted nothing more than to see her ruined, and their cocks were throbbing in their codpieces at the chance. They called to her in the common speech of the Outskirts - ‘Work that dick!’, ‘I can smell your wet cunt, you fuckin’ whore!’, ‘I bet you love this, you probably jack off nobles all day!’ - and some even went as far as to reach behind their oiled leather codpieces and rub their bulging erections through loose-fitting pantaloons.  
  
A minute of stroking had failed to produce any change in Galain’s condition, and Sigalda began to look worried. Accelerating her pace had made no difference, only produced a more lewd sound of flopping flesh. “Uncle, why!?” she asked, helplessly, looking up at the grimacing man. With only three minutes to go, there was no sign of an erection at all. “For my sister’s sake, what prevents thee?”  
  
“I cannot bear it,” Galain said, hesitatingly. “It is too wrong, it doesn’t please me as it would, but rather fills me with shame!”  
  
“Then what would please thee!?” Sigalda cried, her eyes desperate. “You must tell me, Uncle!”  
  
Galain reddened, and seemed unable to say more as precious seconds ticked away. He looked like time bomb, set to explode, a man holding in the urge to kill or fuck or cry out. His hesitation drew another call from his kneebound student as she still fondled his soft penis. “Uncle!”  
  
“Ye must kiss it!” Galain burst out at last, barking down at Sigalda with the authority he’d once used to teach her lessons in thrusts, parries and dodges, lessons meted out on the parapets with grain-sack dummies and wooden swords, the man with less grey hair and less gut, the girl young too young yet to have breasts but still with the same long coltish legs and bronze skin that shone like fire beneath the tomboyish corona of her platinum hair. “Kiss it, girl, use that mouth for something other than simpering jokes and giggling!”  
  
It was a tone Sigalda remembered instantly, that authoritative voice that had punished and praised her, molded her into a warrior, and to hear it again in these circumstances was bitter and obscene. “Uncle?!” she said, feeling her emotions torn. Her hands ceased moving, she felt paralyzed… until his practiced hand struck out and slapped her face, sending a sharp report echoing through the hall.  
  
“Are ye deaf as well as stupid?” Galain barked, his voice strained, a red line seeming to rise at his collar. “Open your simpering mouth, girl, and _swallow my cock_!”  
  
Sigalda’s face broke into a pathetic expression of cowed obedience, instinctively obeying the only male authority figure she’d ever known outside of her own father, disgusted with her participation but compelled nonetheless. Her lips, light pink and brighter in color even than her skin, parted and wrapped around Galain’s hanging johnson, which she saw was already thickening. The loose foreskin rumpled in her mouth and the half-hard length seemed pliable and loose against her tongue. It accordioned softly against the back of her palette, filling her. Curly grey pubic hairs brushed against her puckered, extended lips as she enveloped his root, detaching and dusting her mouth and cheeks. “Mmmpph!” she moaned, looking up at Galain desperately, tears welling in her eyes.  
  
“Move that head!” he barked, the look in his own eyes furious and far away, as if lost in remembrance of a bloody battle far in the past. He was no longer the embarrassed old man, but the stern teacher, having brought his heart to the place it needed to be to perform the act required. “Use your tongue to cover every inch with your spit, girl, or I’ll clout you another blow!”  
  
Sigalda tried to do as she was told, making wet noises as her tongue bathed his veiny, pale shaft. She braced her hands on his thighs as she serviced him, desperately sucking, licking around his shaft, moaning with dismay at the foul taste of unwashed dick and the indecency of the act. She sucked lewdly at his semi-flaccid pipe like a baby at a pacifier, her lips extending outward from her jaw, with pubic hairs poking out in squiggly lines from the seal her mouth made on his thickness. Even determined as she was, there was no way to hide the look of disgust in her defiant eyes.  
  
“Two minutes,” Starr called out, having to raise his voice a little as the din in the room was rising with the exhalations of the principles and the catcalls of his men, who took every opportunity they could to tell Sigalda what a ‘slutty, thick-assed young bitch’ she was and how much they’d like to be in the old man’s place to give her a proper fucking.  
  
“Ye must act sexier as you do it!” Galain scolded, and slapped her cock-stuffed face again. “Stupid tomboy, ye did never realize what a piece of ass you are! Didn’t ye see the tent you put in the britches of every lad who got a look at you? Yer very own adopted brother, even? Ye couldn’t possibly be so stupid not to know!” He puffed with frustration and grabbed Sigalda by her platinum hair, jerking her cock-stuffed head back and pulling it off his cock, which was now half-hard, but by no means at full mast. She coughed, tears welling in her eyes.  
  
“Uncle, how can thee speak so-”  
  
“Stop your whining!” he interrupted. “Arch that back and show those bosoms, girl! Every bondsman and every noble besides has spoken so about your tits and tail you since you blossomed!” He reached down and took hold of one of the leather straps maintaining her iron brassiere, tugging it roughly upward until the garment was askew and her large breasts fell free, much to the delight of the onlooking rebels. Sigalda’s first instinct was to cover up, placing her slender wrists over the swell of her bosom, but Galain was quick to slap her hands apart. Her chest really was perfect in proportion and complexion, as uniformly brown-skinned as the rest of her sweat-slick body, but with large, pale pink nipples the same light color as her lips and quite obviously raised with arousal.  
  
“What a fuckin’ slut, sucking some old man cock and those nips are hard as fuckin’ diamonds,” one of them men commented roughly, and Sigalda’s cheeks grew rosy with embarrassment again. She had not even realized it… had not noticed she felt anything! Yet it was unquestionably true that her nipples were turgid and tingly as they sometimes got when she was alone in her nightclothes and happened to brush a finger against her nethers in just the right way. Even in the midst of all the humiliation, for her body to react so… it made no sense!  
  
“No!” she cried out, moving again to cover her nipples. “Never would I enjoy such a thing!”  
  
“Ye say so, missy, but your slick thighs tell different, so they do!” came the cackling voice of Agatha, who pointed one bony finger at Sigalda and nodded toward the sheer, barely-there metal crotchpiece of her armor. Her skin on either side, and down the insides of her thighs, was shining with wetness that could scarcely be sweat. “Your uppity little quim’s as sodden as a swamp!”  
  
As Sigalda looked over at Agatha, the old woman shot her a knowing look, a contemptuous manipulator’s sneer, and Sigalda thought back to when the crone had touched her breast, lingering there, touching where no touch had been warranted or wanted. It was true, her crotch was wet with her own clear and sticky lubrications, that she was feeling a buzzing in the pit of her stomach and below that could scarcely be attributed to her normal reactions. Her breasts seemed hot and heavy and sensitive, and even her tongue seemed swollen in her mouth and thick with saliva that trailed an impish, desirous fire down her throat.  
  
_A spell? That old witch, she’s done something to my body!_  
  
“‘Tis not!” Sigalda called out in defiance, clapping her thighs together to hide her wetness and crossing her arms over her breasts. “Thee wretched old buzzard, I’ll-”  
  
But Galain interrupted her again, grabbing her hair and dragging her face against his cock, rubbing the uncircumcised length against her features and causing Sigalda to let out a dismayed moan. “Stop your dallying!” he barked. “We have but moments to spare, ye dumb bitch! How quickly your pride has made you dull!” He gripped his half-hard length and swung it against Sigalda’s lips, bopping her on the mouth as though it were a flail. “Hands away from your tits! Knees apart! Bend your back and thrust out your bottom as you should!”  
  
She obeyed automatically, her mind reeling and just letting obedience take over. Her arms fell limply to her sides and she sunk down, spread her knees, and outthrust her buttocks whorishly, the leather thong strap cutting between their bulbous thickness and barely covering her pink asshole. The men were gathering around the spectacle more closely now, and those in the back craning their necks to see; those holding Ein and Duncan letting their heads free and allowing Ein to turn away from the sight and shut his long-lashed eyes, though Duncan watched on with a teenage boy’s interest, unfettered by decorum.  
  
“One minute,” Starr called out, and nobody had to repeat what would follow if the time expired without Galain having reached the required climax. The announcement seemed to draw the old man into an even greater fit of rage.  
  
“Gods damn you, Sigalda, suck on my balls! Sexy-like, as a whore should! A man’s strength is in his seed, and you must respect it! Hop to it now, girl, there’s no time!” He let his cock flop into her hair and pressed his low-hanging, hairy scrotum against her face like a sheet, his two balls rubbing over her nose and lips like loose eggs. Sigalda began to suck, drawing first one nut into her mouth and then the next, licking, fellating each nasty, hairy nut and leaving foamy trails of spit that spread into shining bridges when she pulled back. She _should_ have been disgusted - _was_ disgusted - but the feelings in her mouth and throat continued to thrum and churn with a deep, needful pleasure.  
  
“W-why does it feel so to service a man with my mouth?” she groaned, and a shimmering rivulet of wetness dripped from crotch and began to pool on the floor beneath as she glared at Agatha. “What have thee done to me, ye witch?!”  
  
“Keep your attention here, stupid girl!” Galain scolded, and jammed his balls up against her nose, giving her a blast of musk and sweat from his agitated pores. He held her in place for a few precious seconds, causing her blazing blue eyes to nearly cross, before pulling back and allowing her to gasp a new breath. “Ye must speak up, girl, sexy-like! How do ye like it, the smell of my cock and balls, ye strumpet?”  
  
Sigalda cried back at her uncle, overwhelmed by the witch’s sabotage, the rogue’s threats of violence to her sisters, and her own embarrassment. “It’s foul, Uncle! Your old, dirty thing smells terrible and tastes even worse!”  
  
Galain uttered an exasperated grunt and began to slap Sigalda with his cock, which was by then fully erect, battering her lips and cheeks, holding her with one hand while bludgeoning over and over with his ramrod. Though none knew it, it hadn’t been this erect in many years. “Stupid girl! So stupid, stupid! I’ll beat some sense into you if you don’t have any! Do you know nothing about pleasing a man? ‘Twould have better served you to learn with a cock in your hands, rather than a sword!”  
  
“Thirty seconds,” said Starr, and gestured for one of his cutthroats to place a dagger at the neck of one of the knight-captain sisters, drawing an anguished cry. Galain, speaking hurriedly, continued to bang his cock off Sigalda’s face, causing her to moan and cry, her tits jiggling beneath the unfastened bra cups, her pussy dripping lewdly on the ornate central carpet of the throne room.  
  
“Don’t ye see? You must beg for my cock as whore would!” ordered Galain, with all the authority he’d shown as her mentor in a life that seemed eons departed. “Use the Outskirts tongue, this is no nobleman’s ball!” His face was grave and red, veins standing out in his neck. “Now, for the sake of your sister!”  
  
“G-give me your cock, Uncle!” Sigalda wailed, letting him manhandle her face as he wished, taking dickslaps all the while, her tits bouncing and her her ass thrust out for every rebel to see. She made eye contact across the pulsing column of his dick and let her voice become as sweet and begging as she could manage, a call back to when she’d been just a young girl. “Please, give me all the cum from your _big balls_-”  
  
“Say you wish I had fucked you as a child!” Galain quickly called out, stroking his cock furiously just inches from her face. His eyes were hollow, desperate, broken. And from across the room, Agatha Wormwood cackled at the request, as if she’d had an inking all along that such desires had lain in Galain’s heart.  
  
“W-what!?”  
  
“Say it, for god’s sake, Sigalda, ‘twill put me to the edge, I know it!”  
  
Sigalda gulped, her lip quivering. “Uncle! Did you really desire so?!”  
  
“Fifteen seconds,” said Starr, and he was as engrossed as any of them in the suspense, unable to keep his cool demeanor fully when blood was on the line. A circle of rebels had gathered around now, many of them with cocks in hand, stroking them, easily as engorged as Galain and many far larger and longer in size.  
  
“SIGALDA!” Galain roared.  
  
Sigalda squeezed back tears and tried to ignore the burning fire in her throat and her loins. Taking a deep breath, she cried out.  
  
“I wish you had come to me when I was but a girl, Uncle!” she bawled in the low, Outskirts tongue. I wish you had lain on top of me in my bed and jammed your tongue in my little mouth and made me suck it as you shoved your fuckin’ fat, smelly dick in my tiny cunt!”  
  
With only seconds to go, Galain bit his lip and growled, shoving his pelvis forward with force that had long been forgotten by his old bones. Even at his age he was a powerful man, his iron-hard cock speared without mercy into the back of Sigalda’s throat, making a telltale bulge in her slender neck before he began to face-fuck her in the final moments of the cruel challenge, two hands in her silken platinum hair, her lips stretched into a seal around his girth, saliva billowing and blowing out of her mouth in hoarse spurts and he plundered her.  
  
“I should have done it!” he gasped and shuddered. “Gods, how I dreamed of it! Your defiant little noble mouth wrapped around my prick! By god, as I taught ye I should have fed your growing body on a diet of nothing but my seed, and raped you each night until you were heavy with child!” His breath hitched as Starr began to count down the seconds. Five. Four. Three. Galain cried out and obscured the rest of the descending seconds beside an equally loud roar from the rebel onlookers, many of whom were jerking their pricks but a few feet away. “Eat my seed, Sigalda, ye worthless cum-sewer!”  
  
Sigalda’s electric blue eyes were wild and alight with sensation, rolling back slightly in their sockets, wet with moisture. There was no way to describe what was happening to her as anything other than hard, unremitting throat rape; Galain’s saggy, heavy balls were flopping and slapping against her chin while his shaft plowed through her mouth, flattening her tongue and scraping the back of her throat with his bulbous prick helmet. The friction had peeled back his foreskin all the way, allowing his unrestricted glans to batter her windpipe. The warrior princess could only let out a series of glottal, lewd-sounded gags that send spittle sliding down between her breasts in fat, bubbling tributaries.  
  
Yet, though the expected pain and discomfort of the violation was present, it existed alongside an unwilling, overpowering sensation of pleasure that made Sigalda’s entire body quake and her muscles tense and shudder. She began to moan and scream along with her choking, her volume escalating and reaching a high pitch as she thrust out her ass and chest and dropped her body lower. A humiliating orgasm ripped through her body, and at the same time, a torrent of fluid exploded from her pussy, the outflow muffled by her iron bikini bottom and made to splatter in a starburst pattern against her legs and onto the floor.   
  
Galain grit his teeth thrust one last time into Sigalda’s mouth, hilting himself. There was a subtle splurging sound as his cock pumped thick, splattery ropes of his backed-up seed down her throat, spraying into the belly nestled behind those defined abdominal muscles that so many had admired. Sigarda hitched and made lewd swallowing noises as the action was reflected in the rise and fall of her neck, one thick, pregnant swallow after another. Thick curds of the stuff burst from the seal of her lips around Galain’s base, and twin strands poured from Sigalda’s thin and regal nose, testament to how completely she was being filled.  
  
“This royal bitch is cumming from having her throat fucked by the old bastard!” someone yelled, and there was no denying it was true. The cries and grunts of the Princess Knight, the suggestive sinking of her pelvis, the shower of wetness from her puffy, iron-clad cunt - these all proved that her body had somehow enjoyed the humiliating ordeal. Sigalda herself wished only that all eyes could somehow look away, screaming in her mind that it could not be true, she would never have an orgasm from such foulness, and that all should avert their eyes and not look at her. She knew what they were seeing, had seen men in their drunkenness take leave to an alley behind taverns, lean upon the wooden wall, and relieve their bladders with grunts of contentment. Her former teacher was _emptying_ himself into her in much the same way, making the same grunts of relief as he came down her throat, and that the liquid in question was mansperm rather than piss did not make her feel like any less of a receptacle for waste.  
  
Galain pulled back, breathing hard, allowing his spurting prick-helmet to pour out several final ropes of cum over Sigalda’s pink lips and tongue. Her mouth was totally full of the stuff, mostly obscuring the inside, her teeth floating in it as she looked up with a shocked expression, keeping her mouth open. After the mania and the strange trance that seemed to come over him, the old man seemed spent.  
  
“That’s right, show us that cum!” crowed one rebel guard as Sigalda knelt with her mouth open, her tear-filled and defeated eyes shocked and wide. “Looks like the old fucker gave you a nice meal!”  
  
“Look!” called another. “She’s got pubes stick in her teeth!”  
  
“Chew it,” Starr spat, looking down at her with crossed arms. “Or the dagger-hand can still fly.” Sigalda did so, her arms limp at her sides, her eyes half-lidded with humiliation and defeat. She swirled the thick, foul load of cum around in her mouth, knowing a large amount of the stuff, of similar consistency, was already in her belly. Her cheeks puffed out like those of a squirrel as she swished and sloshed the mess around, then opened her mouth again to show it off.  
  
_It’s so thick and smells awful_, she thought, _and yet my belly and my throat burns for it. What has that witch done? Just the thought of swallowing makes me want to be sick! But I also want to drink it!_  
  
“Swallow it all,” Starr ordered, clearly enjoying his sexual puppeteering and Sigalda’s acquiescence. Desperate, she used her fingers to gather the stray deposits of cum on her lips and chin and shove them into her mouth, pinching her fingers to lift several long, grey pubic hairs from her lips and drop them into her wide-open mouth as well, taking no half-measures with the task so close to complete. She puffed out her cheeks again and then took the whole thick, pube-dusted load down with an exaggerated, wet swallowing sound, before exhaling loudly and extending her tongue, mouth open, to show the proof. She felt broken, could do no more, there was no further indignity of sufficient vileness to show her submission. When Starr looked over to the captured knight-captains, a sad part of Sigalda wished that he would order their deaths anyway, not just to save them the shame of their nakedness, defeat, and likely rape, but to spare herself from any further bargaining for their lives. Starr gave a nod, though, and the daggers were removed from the throats of the prone women. “Congratulations, whore,” he said, looking down at Sigalda. “You’ve won their fuckin’ lives.”  
  
He turned and walked away, back toward the throne, as if she were trash not worthy of his notice. In prior days, a low-born turning his back so rudely on a noble would have been met with sanction, and perhaps that was Starr’s point, proving his lack of interest as he returned to the seat of power and sat next to queen, propping one elbow on the stone armrest and leaning, fist to cheek. As he withdrew, his men closed in. Many had doffed their clothes or opened their trouser-flies to allow their cocks to hang forth. Through the forest of thick, powerful legs, Sigalda could see Galain leaning against the wall, recovering from his exertion, looking darkly ashamed. He could not even look her in the eye, for he knew as well as she that his desire to fuck her as a child rang true, even spoken out of a desire to spare bloodshed. The bond between them was forever broken, she would never be able to recall his stern but kindly face without remembering the taste of his fat cock in her mouth or his words in her ear, ordering her to beg for his cum.  
  
She thought again of Duncan’s young, impertinent voice, energetic but not yet matured into manhood. _You have huge boobs_, he’d blurted. _Everyone says it!_ And if that was so, how many men had made crude jokes about her, dreamed of doing unspeakable things to her, just as Galain had? Galain, who had been like a second father to her. If he had harbored lustful thoughts, was there even a single man in the kingdom who hadn’t wished to-  
  
“Fuck, look at that fuckin’ ass!” said one of her guards, fisting his large penis and grabbing Sigalda by the hair. “I can’t wait to bury my dick between those big brown cheeks!” They were all around her now; two dozen mead-stinking, stout-bellied, scar-faced rebel ruffians who hauled her to her feet and closed in to touching distance, pulling her askew armor from her body and leaving her completely nude, limbs splayed by firm hands. Soaked with sweat, her platinum hair plastered to her neck, tits hanging in round perfection off of her sculpted warrior’s form, flushed and aroused against her will, she looked perhaps more sexual than ever before. It was clear what was going to happen, clear to everyone watching, noble and rebel alike.  
  
The gruff men reached out and groped her in every sacred place, cupping her breasts, tweaking her nipples, running their oily hands down her trim midsection and over her buttocks, grabbing great handfuls of her assflesh, exposing the light pinkness of her butthole, the same color as her nipples and lips. They slapped their large, turgid cocks against her ass, rubbed the weeping pissholes against her midriff and the undersides of her tits. She was a medium-height young woman, but many of them were taller, and they loomed over her, laughing and rubbing her as they pleased, making foul jokes through crooked teeth and paying particular attention to her pussy. Much to Sigalda’s dismay, even the slightest touch to her breasts or womanhood caused a crackle of forbidden ecstasy to shoot through her body, and her half-moan, half-objections only made the men laugh and enjoy her torment all the more.  
  
“Nnnngh! N-no! Don’t touch me! Filthy scum, I’ll see thee dead before all is done!” she wailed, but when a burly warrior slid his middle finger down the furrow of her cleft, she couldn’t cried out and every muscle in her body trembled as a hot rope of lube burst out of her pussy in a horizontal arc that sliced between two assailants and splashed down over the course of perhaps ten feet.  
  
“You’re getting off on this, you filthy fuckslut!” the man crowed, and continued his fingering.  
  
Starr watched impassively from beside the shellshocked Queen Cordelia. After a moment, he beckoned Ein and Duncan over to stand by the throne, making the gathering a ‘family affair’, and spoke in a voice that all three of them could hear. “The House of Zwei is dead,” he said, matter-of-factly, and if Ein of Cordelia had any more objections to make, they were too strung out and defeated to give them voice. “And we must now sift the motherfuckin’ embers and take what fuckin’ reparations we can.”  
  
From his closer vantage, young Ein couldn’t take his eyes off of Sigalda, the way his once-proud sister was being surrounded, the fingers digging into her plump, wet pussy, her body glistening and surrounded by so much vile maleness. He had her hair, her eyes, and her graceful athleticism, but none of her courage and martial prowess.  
  
“Do you like what you see?” Starr asked.  
  
“No!” he said at once. “How could I-”  
  
“Please,” Cordelia begged, showing some concern from within her shell of humiliation. “Torment him no more!” Yet Starr backhanded her across the face, drawing a yelp and shutting her mouth at once, and Ein looked on, more ashamed than before. His eyes were wide as he watched his sister be molested, watched hungry mouths suck on her tits and pull them into cone shapes, watched dirty fingers probe into her mouth and gruff voices bid her suck at them, a task she performed helplessly and while being pawed from every direction. A large man hooked his hands under her knees and hoisted her up, holding her suspended with legs spread, turning her toward the throne, letting Ein and Cordelia see the wet, soaking gash of her pink pussy and the way lube was streaming down her thighs.  
  
“N-no!” Sigalda moaned. “D-don’t look! Mother, Ein, Duncan you must look away!”  
  
Yet they could not, were not permitted to, and their eyes drank in every detail of her debasement. The man holding her had a very large cock that hung iron-hard in the air just below her pussy, thick and venous and covered in fleshy boils. His balls seemed the size of fists, and it would only take a slight movement of his muscle-banded arms to move Sigalda into position and shove himself inside.  
  
“N-no…” Ein objected, but his normally child-like voice had even less conviction in it than usual. “You have won, your armies, you needn’t-”  
  
“She will be _raped_, Prince,” Starr hissed, with cruelty in his voice, causing both Ein and Cordelia to gasp and moan, and the man holding Sigalda lowered her moist and inviting asshole onto his unbelievably thick cock. A second man sandwiched her, pressing in between her splayed thighs from the front, and dug his own swarthy, rock-hard member into her soaked pussy. There was the wet sound of meat separating and fluids sliding as they pressed into her and she cried out like a banshee as both males began to pump and fuck.  
  
“There will be negotiations,” Starr went on, unbuttoning his fly as he talked to the boys and their mother, allowing a large and ruddy cock to flop against the leg of his trousers. Ein regarded it with something like fright, while Duncan ignored it, focusing on Sigalda, seeming lost in thought. The rebel leader reached out and grabbed Queen Cordelia by her long, straight blonde hair and tugged her face down onto his dick, bidding her suck it. She made a muffled noise of distress as her thin nose was pressed against his fat balls. “It will be months. Months of looting and redistribution of wealth, deals with Garavant about who gets what. And until a new regent is named or a new government formed, you, the royal family, will become the symbols of change.”  
  
“Nnngh, fuck! I’m gonna cum in this stupid whore’s tight cunt!” wheezed one of the men, his fat pring still slicing into Sigalda’s molten box as she was held aloft, joining the equally large pipe ripping into her ass and making her breasts and buttocks jiggle with each impact.  
  
“N-no, not inside me!” she wailed, her face soaked with sweat, clinging to the front man for dear life. “Thee mustn’t!” And yet her voice had a strained, orgasmic quality, and Agatha cackled at the effect of her hidden incantation. “Not inside! Don’t look! I… I can’t!” Sigalda moaned, and her tongue flopped out of her mouth as the men picked up speed, shaking her body with the force of their dicks pounding in and out of her holes, the thickness of each spreading her once-noble orifices and making them loose and sopping. “I mustn’t! The mustn’t!”  
  
“Suck my dick while you watch your slut daughter cum from getting _raped_, you stupid whore,” Starr sneered, and forced Cordelia’s mouth down on his prick, filling her mouth and bulging her cheek out, lifting her long and flowing hair to allow a line of sight to Sigalda’s torment. The burly men, their muscles broad and their asses covered in hair, cried out in unison that they were coming, and Sigalda shrieked a final note of negation before they hilted inside her and began to shudder and grunt, unloading huge amounts of rape semen into her pussy and ass. Cordelia and Ein watched with lightless, defeated eyes as Sigalda had a massive orgasm from the brutal cocks plowing her holes and emptying their contents. Her body tensed, her skin shimmered with sweat and then shed it in a fine haze as she seemed almost to have a seizure, her words bleeding together and babbling as the aphrodisiac spell robbed her of any inhibition.  
  
“Auuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuugh!” she howled. “I’m cumming, I’m cumming, I’m cumming from two huge dicks in my pussy and ass! I’m being raped and I’m cumming! I can feel the huge loads in my cunt and my shitpipe!” Her eyes rolled back lewdly and her tongue flopped out of her mouth as her body spasmed. Shortly, the man in her pussy pulled away so the other, who was holding her aloft, could display her to the throne, splay-legged with a dick jammed up her ass.  
  
Sigalda gurgled as a huge creampie burbled out of her cunt and to the royal carpet, with the thickness and copiousness of a just-cracked egg, and the wet spurting sound that was far from noble.  
  
“She will be raped every day, all day,” Starr went on, driving Cordelia’s mouth up and down on his cock with greater force. “Until our work here is done, Princess Knight Sigalda will know nothing but rape and the service of men. We estimate she has killed a thousand - a thousand innocent, honest men who only wished to fight for their livelihoods. And so she will be raped a thousand times, raped and filled with cum until we have to empty her out to begin again.”  
  
He grunted and began to unload his thick, foul cum deep into the Queen’s throat, some slipping out from her lips and soaking his balls. Sigalda, legs and arms limp, lost control of her bladder as a second huge dick was drilled up her ass, spraying a golden fountain of piss that nearly reached the throne. Ein’s eyes and mouth stood wide open in abject horror and defeat. A second cock was jammed into her piss-spraying pussy and they all went to the ground in a pile, where she lay sandwiched between two rebels who tore their cocks into her holes, and a third who squatted over her face, gripped her head with both hands and drilled his iron-hard flesh blade down her throat.  
  
“Stroke our fuckin’ dicks you piece of shit!” ordered another, and placed her flailing hands on their shafts, such that the once-proud Princess Knight was giving two handjobs while being fucked in all three holes, just feet in front of her cum-drinking mother and aghast younger brother. Those who couldn’t gain access to her hands knelt beside and poked their erections against her breasts, stabbing them against her nipples and jerking themselves off until they spewed their thick loads onto her sizzling bronze flesh.  
  
“Fuck, I’m cumming in your mouth-pussy, Princess!” growled the man who was thrusting into her skull. “Get pregnant!” There was a low splattering noise as he spewed huge gouts of his backed-up semen into her stomach. The sounds of sex and slapping flesh were growing in the hall, for those rebels not content to wait for Sigalda’s free holes were were indulging themselves with the other female Knight-Captains. It seemed that every few seconds, a man was crying out, unburdening himself of a huge amount of pent-up seed, only to be replaced by another with a bigger grudge and a bigger set of cum-loaded balls. Sigalda’s face was exhausted, overwhelmed, crazed with shame and unwilling pleasure. Her speech had been reduced to animalistic grunts and moans as the thick penises of her rapists stirred up humiliating feelings deep in her pussy, ass, and throat. Even her nipples seemed to burn with desire when being stabbed by the cockflesh of the men, driving her to even greater heights of degrading pleasure. They were hairy, sweaty, smelly, and hated her… but their fat, heavy cocks made her body feel so good!  
  
Agatha cackled as Sigalda had her third orgasm and the fourth set of groping, unwashed men began to pound her cum-loaded holes. “‘Tis a true reckoning, so it is!” she wailed over the sex-soaked din. “The bloodline of Zwei, pure no more!” She clapped her bony hands on the shoulders of the boys, and Ein shrank from her touch. Men were lined up around Sigalda, enough to rape her for hours, and many of those who had already nutted were circling around for more. Her wild, desperate eyes, bringing across the feeling of an ashamed woman betrayed by her own body, peered unblinking even as a new, sneering beast of a man held his cockhead just inches from her face and unloaded a scalding, lumpy load of searing cum over her lips and nose.  
  
By the end, when every man had had his fill and could fuck no more, the Princess Knight was barely conscious, having had so many orgasms and been fucked so brutally all afternoon. She lay face-down, arms at her sides, legs shoulder-width apart, like a corpse dropped face-first into a grave. Her brown skin was soaked with cum and so was the surrounding carpet. Thick rivers of it ran from her pussy and ass like molasses from a tapped keg, and her breasts were pressed against the floor, making them look even bigger. When at last Starr stepped off the throne to yank her up by the hair, her body rose bonelessly, her face dazed and empty. She hitched and vomited a huge goat of yellow-white cum onto the floor, paused and vomited again. He released her, letting her fall cheek-first into her own filth, and then squatted near her, saying nothing, waiting until her trembling head stirred a little and turned to him, shooting him a glance of hatred through a mask of sperm.  
  
“I… will... kill you…” she groaned, her voice just a rasp from a throat raw from crying out and harsh oral sex.  
  
“You’d do well to rest, Princess,” Starr replied, indulgently. “For tomorrow is another day.”


	2. Episode 2 (Subbed)

“Well, aren’t ye a pathetic sight.”  
  
Sigalda knew the voice without raising her head, for it was a wretched croaking sound squeezed from a throat ancient and well-practiced in spitting bile. It belonged to Agatha Wormwood, witch of Garavant, and could have been imitated by no other. She stood at the bars of Sigalda’s cell, hunched over and aged, her body mercifully concealed in a billowing black robe. Those parts of her that were revealed, her bunched knuckles, her pointed chin and hooked nose, gave the impression of incredible age. This was a creature who had scuttled and bargained through a dozen lifetimes. Her eyes, milked over with cataracts, nonetheless carried a sinister intelligence and will.  
  
“Begone, witch,” Sigalda retorted, her voice pained. “I’ll hear no taunts and insults from the likes of thee. For thy vandals have destroyed a kingdom more beautiful than any ye could ever conceive, and did so with the traitorous mandate of Garavant, for whom thou art emissary.” Her own eyes, clear and blue, blazed with contempt and seemed to shine in the dim light of her cell. She was barely clothed, stripped of all but her metal chestpiece and thong, her thighs balanced on a wooden bench with no padding, her breasts hanging with pert fullness in their plated containers above a tight midriff that widened to enticing hips and buttocks pressed flush against the stout slab. “Begone!” she repeated.  
  
But Agatha did not move, only cackled in her disaffected way, as though the whole world were a fool and only she fit to know it. Pointing the tip of her staff through the rusted iron bars, she regarded Sigalda and shook her head.  
  
“Stupid child! How little ye know or understand, about yourself or the motivations of your betters!” She made a ‘tsk’ sound with her mouth as a teacher might do before correcting a wayward pupil. Sigalda found it maddening, which was surely her intent. “I care nothing for Starr and his rebellion of fools and dogs.” She waved a hand. “Let them pillage and rape, for old Agatha has her eye on a greater prize.”  
  
Sigalda rose up from her bench, the miserable rectangular length she’d been expected to sleep on for several nights. This caused her breasts to bounce in exaggerated fashion, but as ever, the buxom and athletic gal princess took no notice of how her body might look in the midst of her movements. It was this detachment from her appearance (and the resulting effect on admirers) that had earned her a reputation throughout Zwei as an attraction not to be missed. The peasantry, even if they hated the nobility, had always craned their necks for a chance to see her brown-skinned form in motion.  
  
“Liar!” Sigalda accused, and marched to the cell bars to look Agatha in the eye, such that only a foot of space separated them. “Only by thy leave did the castle fall! If thy hand directs Starr, then by thy will has Zwei fallen!”  
  
Agatha shook her head as if utterly bored. “Men are easy to direct, aye. Starr’s vengeance drives him like any fool, to murder and blindness.” She flapped her head like a mouth. “He dances and capers to my tune, missy, as though my hand were jammed up his ever-loving bung and directing his limbs to walk and his mouth to walk. But that does not mean I care a whit for him, any more than I care for the wretched road that carries my cart home.”  
  
“Then thou art-”  
  
“Hush!” Agatha snapped, and rapped her staff on the rough stone of the dungeon floor. “And listen well, ye brown-skinned princess. The magic sword _Alsansam_ is the prize I seek and Starr’s promised price to me. If ye give it over, ye might yet find mercy in what events transpire.”  
  
Sigalda blinked and narrowed her brow. Her thin blonde eyebrows, lighter than her tanned skin, formed a perplexed arch. “Alsansam?”  
  
“I’ll not say ye can go back to how it was, for it’s too far gone,” Agatha went on. “But the queen and your young brother yet survive, and-”  
  
“But it was given to thee!” Sigalda interrupted. “Alsansam! Given to Starr’s riders as I approached the capital!”  
  
At once, Agatha’s face filled with frustrated anger. It was scary to see, a knobbed and warty old woman’s eyes filling with a pitted glow, they seemed to flash red as she burst out with words of admonishment, and seemed to echo as well. A spell, perhaps, or some manifestation of whatever dark energies were inside her. It was all Sigalda could do not to flinch.  
  
“Don’t ye treat me like a fool!” she growled, and beneath her voice there was a second sound, a far-off banshee wail that echoed the words and made them ring out, a second sound that made Sigalda’s spine tingle with chills. Whatever Agatha was, the aged crone was powerful, and in her anger some force, usually kept beneath the surface, was showing itself. “It would be a great mistake to try to trick Agatha Wormwood, child.” She seemed to grow larger beneath her robe, and her withered hand grasped out through the bars to grasp Sigalda by the neck.  
  
Normally such a thin wrist and geriatric grip would have been an easy problem from which to disengage, especially for a fighter of Sigalda’s athleticism and training. But in her agitated state, Agatha’s grip was inhuman. Sigalda tried to pull back and could not. _Like iron_, Sigalda thought. _Even with both hands I can’t move her fingers!_ It seemed that if the old woman had chosen to close her hand, it would have crushed Sigalda’s throat. Mercifully, she did nothing but hold fast, suspending Sigalda in place.  
  
“The sword was given unto me, it remains in the reliquary I prepared,” Agatha said, her voice still with the same eldritch quality. “And there it rests, without power, a normal sword! Useless as an old man’s pecker!” She pulled Sigalda forward until the young princess cute tomboy nose was almost touching her own gnarled beak. Large warts, some with hairs sprouting from them, nearly tickled Sigalda’s nostrils. “You will tell me, child! How do ye draw out the power of Alsansam? How have ye locked it away?”  
  
Sigalda blinked, not understanding the question. Alsansam had always come alive in her hand in time of need, reinforcing her body, lending her the gifts of superhuman strength, speed and agility. The sword had always seemed to obey her, and it had been her birthright, bonded to her in the early days of her training. Until being given over to Starr’s riders, it had not left her side in more than a decade. There was no rite, no incantation, no secret password involved, and thus she did not know how to answer Agatha, or even how to properly explain.  
  
“Alsansam has always… obeyed me!” Sigalda choked out, her shining white teeth clenched. “Its power flows... freely!”  
  
“Ye lying churl!” Agatha spat. “‘Tis a useless hunk of metal, yet I know by prophecy and divination there’s power in’t!” Her eyes blazed amber and the cataracts seemed to clear, revealing vertical slits, like snake eyes. “How are ye bonded to it? Release the power to me, and your precious kingdom may yet survive!”  
  
Sigalda cried out, a scream really, and there was a flash of white light as her hands found the strength to knock Agatha’s arm from her throat with one sideways blow. She fell to her one knees, choking a little. “I would give thee the sword, and more - my hands, my arms, my legs, my head, if it would make Zwei whole again,” she seethed. “Take it all, and the devil too.”  
  
Agatha’s seemed to pause, then spoke with revelatory slowness. “It’s in ye,” she whispered, almost to herself, her voice returning to the froggy croak of an old woman. “Tied up in that stubborn will of yours.” She made another ‘tsk’ noise with her aged tongue. “Oh, I knew ye’d be troublesome.” Then something happened that made Sigalda blink and momentarily lose trust in both her eyes. Agatha’s gnarled and knotted wood staff began to shift and change, and a duo of vine-like tendrils, each as thick as Sigalda’s wrist, issued from the tip. They seemed to be living things, like snakes moving for the kill. Sigalda was dumbfounded for a moment, her brain processing the strange sorcery, and that moment was all Agatha needed.  
  
The twin tendrils struck out toward Sigalda, but low, and wrapped themselves with constructing tightness around her ankles, pulling them toward the bars and sending her toppling. At the same time, two more tendrils emerged from the point of the staff and moved with whip-like speed to capture her wrists. They were mottled green, like the skin of a frog, and seemed to teem with tiny bristles or fibers at equidistant points. The feeling against against Sigalda’s skin was hideously alive, as the long, root-like extensions were teeming with strange muscle fibers beneath the surface. Their strength greatly overmatched her own, and lifted her into the air as Agatha looked on, dividing Sigalda’s ankles and her wrists and pulling them to either side of her body, suspending the princess as if crucified.  
  
“Foul sorceress!” Sigalda accused, crying out, and she certainly wasn’t wrong. Agatha only looked on impassively, and the head of her staff produced two more undulating, twisting vines. These reached out to dig into the leather straps of Sigalda’s brassiere and bikini bottom, coiling around them in a fist-like bunch before pulling them free with brutal force and sending the garments clattering to the stone. Sigalda was thus left suspended, splayed, and totally nude, her pert breasts on display as lewdly as her pussy. Her nipples, pink and lighter in color than her caramel skin, were exactly the same color as the delicate folds of her youthful pussy. Her face flushed with embarrassment in spite of her desire not to show weakness in the face of Agatha’s power. She had bad been humiliated in the throne room and thought no disgrace could be more acute. Yet being spread so helplessly, Sigalda felt renewed shame. The dank air of the dungeon brushing against her nipples caused them to harden against her wishes.  
  
“Thou art no better than Starr and his dogs!” Sigalda cried, grimacing as she was held in place. “I should have known to expect this from thee!”  
  
“Shut your stupid head!” Agatha admonished, waving a hand. “I’ve no interest in your body, those cow udders, nor your royal quim. I’ll leave that to Starr’s bevy of fat fools, aye. For ‘tis a slow process, breaking a will, and if your will binds Alsansam’s power, it must be broken. I’ll let the rebel dogs do such, I only need to prime ye, princess. And so I’ll germinate the seed of your downfall and let Starr and his ilk perpetrate it.”  
  
Sigalda shook her head. “What-”   
  
But her voice trailed off as the two plant-like tendrils of Agatha’s staff extended further, the ends seeming to swell into pods. With a wet, pregnant sound, these round pods split into a tripartite ‘mouth’, like an open flower with reddish purple interiors and tiny ridged teeth around the trillium edge. In the center of each ‘mouth’ (there really was no other manner to interpret the way they were opening and readying to bite) was a dripping, wickedly sharp needle about two inches in length.  
  
“W-wait!” Sigalda said, her face a rictus of alarm. In her agitation and fear, she slipped into the common tongue. “I’ve told you all I know! The truth of it! Surely, you won’t-”  
  
But Agatha intended no mercy, her goal was clear and her dark soul willing to perform any foul task to gain the fabled power of the sacred sword. The tendrils hovered like vipers for a moment, lining up with Sigalda’s large, pert breasts and seeming to hunger. Then they darted forward and each long, organic needle, black and tapered, pressed into the exact center of her nipples before penetrating her flesh.  
  
Sigalda clenched her teeth so hard it seemed they might shatter into brilliant white shards. Her eyes were impossibly wide, and an animalistic roar of pain, brutal and feral, poured from mouth as every sweat-soaked, naked muscle in her nubile body went rigid. Though wild horses would not have dragged the admission out of her, her breasts had always been quite sensitive, especially the large pink nipples that so many squires and horny peasant boys had longed to glimpse during a malfunction of her risque knight’s armor. Now, that vulnerable part of her body was experiencing something beyond simple pain - a burning, unspeakable penetration that burst like fire at the point of affliction and seemed to spread.  
  
“Stop!” Sigalda cried. She wriggled, but the tendrils about her wrists and ankles held fast, suspending her in a posture like a stretched criminal at the torturer’s rack. The thick, almost organic needles were driven inches deep into her breasts, and her eyes could not look away as the tendrils attached to them began to undulate, thickening and bulging as though some mass of liquid were being propelled through them. She could even hear it running, like slurry through a hose. A wet, pregnant, sloshing sound.  
  
“A dab of incubi’s venom, that’s the trick,” Agatha said, her voice strangely disaffected, as though she were performing an experiment. “T’won’t hurt for long, princess. And when you’re getting done to you what men of Starr’s ilk do, you’ll thank old Agatha in the end, so ye will.” The bulge in the tendrils traveled up and up, nearing the mouths, nearing the needles that were sunk into Sigalda’s pert, tanned flesh. She cried out in defiance, but to no avail.  
  
Liquid began to pump into Sigalda’s exposed breasts with a wet propulsion sound, producing an unspeakable sensation that was searing hot. The princess knew startlingly little of her own anatomy even as every man in the kingdom would have loved to teach her, but she was educated enough to know that women produced milk in their breasts for the purposes of nursing their babies. In fact, there were women of the servant class whose entire occupation was nurse the babies of the nobility. Only now did she begin to realize what a network of passages and ducts must lay in the tissue of her own breasts, however, as the burning venom seemed to pour into and ravage each one! She could sense it filling her, pumping into each channel and widening it, making her absorb it! Her breasts seemed to swell with it, visibly growing slightly larger and more full. Sigalda could imagine something akin to the root system of a tree, growing down into her, a root system of hot, tingling poison! She clenched her teeth and cried out again.  
  
“Release me, witch!” she moaned, but Agatha only waved a hand.  
  
“The Incubi have long played a hand in Garavant’s history,” the crone said, holding Sigalda aloft as the tentacles continued to pump their strange, magical discharge. “Ye’ll feel a burning now, but it’s the aftermath ye’ll thank me for, girl. So dumb about your own charms, aren’t you? When the venom flows its course, the slightest grope from one of Starr’s scoundrels will seem like a diddle of yer own silken pearl nubbin’!”  
  
“I’d sooner die than enjoy being touched by such filth!” Sigalda spat, and Agatha cackled.  
  
“Ye already know how it can be, for I gave you a dose when I touched you in the throne room. A much weaker dose, and yet you survived being raped well enough and even had a bit of fun yerself-”  
  
“I never!” Sigalda objected, but Agatha ignored her, and the tendrils continued their slow, implacable work, their narrow bodies bulging with the passage of dose after dose of strange fluid. The tissues of her round, perfectly-proportioned breasts seemed to throb with fullness as every duct and channel was filled, causing her breast meat to veritably sizzle with sensation. Sigalda’s expression, vacillating between fury and an overwhelmed sort of worry, made it clear that the feeling was unlike any she’d encountered. It was not precisely pain, as in her infrequent wounds on the battlefield, but pain was _part_ of it. Rather, it was a feeling of _violation_, of narrow passages being torn open!  
  
Agatha rapped her staff on the ground and another tendril emerged from the gnarled base; Sigalda could see the staff itself seemed less and less like petrified wood, as she had observed earlier, but rather a living thing that seemed to roil and bulge in Agatha’s arthritic, swollen-knuckled grip. The new tendril, slime-covered and bristling with feelers, had an end like a flytrap, from which slender ‘feelers’ emerged around yet another black, organic needle. This went unerringly to where the princess’ athletic thighs were splayed and seemed to hover around the glistening lips of her sex. Without ceremony or further word from the witch, the smaller, secondary tendrils, thin as bodice laces and an inflamed red color, battened on her labia and spread them wide. In spite of her discomfort and anger, Sigalda blushed at being so lewdly displayed. Even while the ruffians had taken advantage of her in the throne room, her shame had been hidden by the rough circle of their bodies. Yet Agatha’s strange, living staff was exposing her pussy obscenely, showing every detail of her perfectly round, pea-sized clitoris, her vaginal opening, and the winking, quivering hole through which she passed urine. As if to bring even sharper focus to these areas, the larger vines around her ankles lifted them up, and began to hold Sigalda in a position akin to a birthing mother, before pinning her knees back so far they nearly touched her shoulders. Her young, tanned, hairless royal pussy was completely exposed!  
  
“Ye tomboy princess,” Agatha scolded. “Having so much yet knowing so little. Old Agatha was a looker in the day, aye, and never turned down a chance for fun with a king or maiden alike! But I knew my appetites and how to please them, so I did, and never judged. Tell me, why is thy precious poon as bald as a baby’s belly if ye didn’t aim for it to be seen?”  
  
“‘Tis simple grooming!” Sigalda barked, her expression carrying renewed anger. “As ladies of the court have always done!” she paused, feeling absurd for even discussing it in her state. “And none of thy business!”  
  
“Ha! This fine brown-skinned vessel so many years and ye’ve done nothing with it but chop a few rebel heads!” Agatha retorted. They were still separated by the iron bars, but the tendrils of her staff were more than up to the task of manipulating Sigalda’s body. “Well, this will be an education for ye, princess!”  
  
Another organic vine rapidly flew from the staff and headed unerringly for Sigalda’s undercarriage, sopping with lubrication such that droplets flew through the air as it advanced. The princess had only time to draw in a breath before it pressed against the pinkish rosebud of her asshole and burrowed inside, splitting her athletic cheeks around its girth and drawing a wide-eyed, clench-toothed grimace that would have been comical under other circumstances. A long, animalistic groan came from Sigalda as the thick, organic root began to slide into her bowels. “Hnnnhgh! T-take it out!” she shuddered, but to no avail, as the length slid ever-deeper, seeming to curve around corners and navigate the hot, wet, labyrinthine corridors of her ass with foul eagerness. Sigalda was overwhelmed by the same burning, tingling sensation she’d felt in her breasts. Tears welled in her eyes and droplets of sweat were forming on her smooth, caramel-colored skin.   
  
Agatha observed her tendril at work and seemed to nod with satisfaction as Sigalda shuddered and struggled. “Let the venom do it’s work on your high-and-mighty royal road, ye brat. You’ll cry out and quake while making dirt in the mudshack, so ye will.” Agatha cackled a little at the thought. “With a line of suitors at the privy!”  
  
Sigalda bit her bottom lip, showing flawless white teeth. It was so embarrassing to imagine, being turned on at such a thing, but the hellish truth was that she could feel the beginnings of what Agatha was describing. The liquid being pumped into her breasts, the secretions of the large tendril sliding into her bowels… every internal membrane was flaring with a heat that had seemed unpleasant at first but was coalescing, evolving into something much different, a hypersensitivity that the blonde-haired royal was loathe to experience or admit. Even as she shut her eyes and steeled her will against the invasive, slime-coated vines, her body was reacting, aching, pulsing with response. Her bowels were spasming, trying to push the invader out… and the friction of that thick, girthy tendril, along with the needles that were stabbed into her nipples and the flood of liquid into her milk-ducts, was producing a sort of dark, wet, forbidden pleasure.  
  
Agatha sensed it too, and a smug twinkle came to her eye that enraged Sigalda, who would have gleefully put out with a blade if given the chance. “Aye, now ye begin to feel it,” Agatha affirmed, and rapped her staff on the ground, producing still more tendrils. Some had needles and were more slender, others were thicker and roughly textured, all were coated with the same glistening sheen of yellow-white slime, leaving Sigalda’s skin moist as they coiled about her arms and legs, seeming to explore each well-constructed inch of her form with no regard for decorum.  
  
“Release me!” Sigalda cried out, her voice almost turning the request into a moan as she squinted her eyes shut and tried to ignore the flares of pleasure in her loins.  
  
“Bah!” Agatha spat. “Your mouth is one hole it’ll be my pleasure to plug, and spare my ears from that brat’s clarion of yours.” The old woman seemed to use a hand to direct a thick, slime-soaked vine to hover before Sigalda’s face. Knowing what Agatha intended provided no protection, for try as Sigalda might to seal her moist, pert lips together and allow the bulging tendril no purchase, a procession of smaller ribbon-like vines whipped into action, gaining entrance on her teeth and levering her jaw open with unnatural strength. Sigalda could utter but one defiant squawk before the girthy tentacle drove forward and into her mouth, bringing her voice to a gurgling stop. Sigalda’s shining blue eyes crossed as though attempting to look down at her own mouth. Her cheeks puffed out as the the organic tendril began to discharge thick, yellowish-white goo from the tip and onto her tongue, covering it instantly, the sheer volume causing splatters to spray back out of the tight seal her lips made around its circumference.  
  
The taste of the substance was uniquely foul. It had some things in common with the semen she’d been forced to swallow during her ordeal in the throne room, but also carried an organic, garbage-like scent that reminded Sigalda of pus from an ill-kept wound, a gross yet unmistakably sexual substance born of Agatha’s sorceries. She thought she might immediately vomit, and her stomach roiled, but the feeling passed and was replaced by a hot and tingling in her tongue and the roof of her mouth that was becoming sadly familiar. The lengths of the tendrils in her mouth and ass bulged as pockets of the thick slime traveled through them and into her body, and though Sigalda shook her head in negation, she had no choice but to moan helplessly as huge jets of whitish-yellow sludge erupted down her throat and up her ass, pouring with sickly heat into her stomach and the depths of her bowels, making obscene sounds while filling her up. Each fat deposit of goo made shape in the tendrils like the half-swallowed prey of a python, and stung her insides as it pulsed into her.  
  
_SLLLCH. SPLLRRT. SLLLCH._ The noises kept time with the swell of venom into her breasts, and for the first time Sigalda felt completely overwhelmed by what was being done to her unparalleled, athletic body, her exhalations and objections losing reducing themselves to mournful moans as Agatha’s protrusions took humiliating liberties. Her breasts were already slightly larger and burning with a deep sensation of need, and her belly began to swell, making her look slightly pregnant, though her fit midriff still showed the latticework of six well-maintained abdominal muscles over the modest bulge.  
  
In the midst of her ordeal, Sigalda lost track of how many tendrils had sprung from Agatha’s staff, which was beyond all doubt a living thing in the guise of a walking stick, a device with eldritch power buried within, power that obeyed the gnarled old witches’ commands. Two more thin, pulsating lengths hooked her nostrils and spread them wide open, pulling her cute features into a humiliating pig-nose. A thicker one wrapped around her neck as others circled her biceps and thighs.  
  
“Would no suitor have ye?” Agatha mused, her tendrils pulling Sigalda’s legs even wider apart. “Too much of a tomboy, no doubt, clutching at swords instead of songbirds. Are ye fertile? Or have yer precious eggs withered into all uselessness?” Though Sigalda shook her head and moaned through the fat tentacle that was pulsing in her mouth, she could not stop a particularly large, slimey protrusion from breaking off from Agatha’s staff and pressing up against her quivering, wet pussy. She was completely soaked and dripping despite the situation, a condition brought open by the slime soaking into the membranes of her bowels and stomach and throat, the incubotic venom coursing in her tits. This, the lubricated, powerful tendril slid into her with ease, stretching her puffy outer lips and expanding her tightness. It moved, inch by inch, into the depths of Sigalda’s molten, soaked womanhood before butting against the obstruction of her cervix.  
  
“I’ll give ye a mercy now, dark-skinned princess!” Agatha cackled, her eyes dancing with dark intent. “That ye may obey only your body, and let stewardship of the greatsword Alsansam fall to one more wise, more powerful than ye could ever be!” She rapped her writhing, flailing staff on the stone floor again. Two long, invasive mini-tendrils burst from the end of the fat vine in Sigalda’s pussy and slid into her womb, causing her to moan around the invader in her mouth and drool a waterfall of off-white into her own cleavage. The alien lengths explored her, an unspeakable feeling, like a jar of spiders released inside her most intimate place, and sound the two tight channels, her oviducts, down which her fertile eggs would travel to be fertilized. They pressed further, sliding into these ever-tighter tunnels, until they reached Sigalda’s ovaries. There, they attached to the walnut-sized shapes, her most sacred reproductive depths, before producing sinister, wickedly sharp stingers.  
  
Sigalda felt it all, could sense her insides being explored in an unspeakable way, the sensations brutal and invasive and grotesquely sexual in a manner she wished with all of her heart to withstand. Her body had always been a byproduct of her habits - the physical fitness, her training, the days spent in the sun. Her breasts we large because of her mother, no doubt, her body pert and fit and flawless because of youth and exercise. Her appearance was not something she’d dwelt on, even if every man seemed to. Even her famously risque armor was simply the traditional garb for all princess knights of Zwei. She did not spend any time thinking about her tits, or ass, or pussy, or whatever other lewd things came to the imaginations of men. And yet now she was confronted by sensations that brought her flesh to front and center, she could no longer ignore the message her body was sending. She was being utterly invaded, just as he kingdom had been, and also like her kingdom, irrevocably marked. She had studied medical texts, she knew how to cut and kill, and had a vague notion that inside her there was a special place where she would grow a baby with a man she loved. Yet she could no longer stay removed and ignorant of herself and her sex.  
  
A small, delicate tentacle slid from the staff base and poised itself like an asp just inches from the hooded pink pea of her clit. A black, chitinous stinger emerged from the tip, and a droplet of milky venom slid from it, teasing and poking a circle around her throbbing nub, caressing it, drawing unwilling moans. Her loins were _on fire_, Agatha had primed her gorgeous teenage body and set it to sexually explode, and when Agatha gave one final wave of her hand, that is exactly what happened.  
  
All at once, the stingers punctured her ovaries and clitoris, pumping each full of concentrated, searing incubus venom, saturating the tissues mercilessly and making them throb and swell. Every muscle in Sigalda’s body contracted, quite an impressive sight considering how lean and muscled she was. Her buttocks clenched, her thighs tensed, her abdominal muscles stood out in sweat-soaked striation even atop her slime-bulged belly. She shrieked in sensory overload around the tendril plugging her mouth, crying out at length, a guttural, howling moan that seemed like it would never end, a cry that was half orgasm and half disgrace. Sigalda experienced something beyond a climax - a full-body wildfire of pain and pleasure that threatened to consume her senses.  
  
“Mmmmmmmmmmmmph!” was the only utterance the princess could manage, a long, endless cry as she felt the pulsing injections come in waves. Her clitoris was literally being _stinger-fucked_ and injected with ultra-potent sex serum, it was no less a humiliating act of penetration than any other she’d been subjected to, but felt a thousand times as intense. Inside her abdomen, she could feel her ovaries being filled up in the same lewd way, pumped with liquid fire as a baker might fill a pastry. Through it all, she could vaguely sense Agatha taunting her, cackling, telling her she wouldn’t be so headstrong now, wouldn’t slap away the hand of Agatha Wormwood again. Yet primarily she felt an overpowering wave of sexual awakening, before which her will, that burning flame inside her which told her she must not enjoy this, seemed insignificant. If such violations felt this way, how did any woman avoid going mad? Even as she moaned orgasmically, Sigalda told herself she _must not, must not, must not_…  
  
Even so, a dark part of her _did_. _Did_ enjoy, _did_ give itself up to the feelings.  
  
After fifteen seconds or more of being in such a state, Sigalda began to get hazy. Her eyes grew half-lidded and dull as orgasms exploded and erogenous zones seemed to open and flower in places they had never existed before. She could feel a tingle from the walls of her throat, from slime-soaked, membrane of her bowels, from the deepest parts of her womb. Her tongue and the roof of her mouth throbbed with the friction of the invading tendril and her breasts tingled and sparked with orgasmic sensations where the injected liquid coursed within. The entire process took only perhaps half a minute, but seemed like an eternity, during which she felt in her throat, her ass, her belly, her tongue, her breasts, what she had once only felt between her legs. Her clit, speared with a needle, was the nexus of this new supernova.  
  
Like most explosions, it dissipated as quickly as it had occurred. Sigalda scarcely had her wits about her when Agatha rapped her staff on the stone a final time and the tendrils began to withdraw, the needles retracting and the thick, amphibious, slime-coated lengths retreating from her mouth and anus with surprising speed. The last to move away were the sturdy ones that held her suspended by ankle and wrist, and Sigalda, leaking whitish-yellow fluid from every hole, dropped unceremoniously to the slime-soaked stone of her cell.  
  
“There,” Agatha commented, looking at Sigalda with disdain. “No sorrier a sight than before, but better equipped for the days ahead.” The princess lay on one hip, every inch of her brown-skinned body glistening with a patina of sweat and goo. Her body belly was quickly returning to its normal, well-defined flatness as the strange semen-like sludge poured from her ass in lewd, humiliating fashion. In all respects she seemed worn out, except for her eyes, which were furious. Before long, her belly hitched and she vomited extravagantly, propelling a thick, arcing jet of yellowish tentacle “cum” onto the ground, panting in the aftermath as long strings of drool and slime hung from her lips. Even the act of regurgitation, the friction of her stomach contents being propelled back out of her throat, had nearly made her orgasm.  
  
Agatha cackled and turned, walking away down the corridor. Whatever she had set in motion, she seemed content to wait for the results. Her staff, which had moments before transmogrified into a sort of hellish horror, was only a stick, and tapped lightly, measuring her steps away from the princess’ cell. A guard in the distance made an unintelligible inquiry, the old woman replied curtly, and then Sigalda heard her no more.  
  
  
  


\- 2 -

  
  
  
  
  
“Feeding time, Princess.”  
  
Sigalda heard the creaking of a key in the cell door. It swung open with an aged groan that seemed to echo in the dank dungeon halls. She had three visitors, right on schedule - loud, loutish men in tanned leather wrappings and codpieces, their skin uniformly ruddy as if they’d crawled through the alleys to reach her. They bore red scarves tied as sashes or looped around their waists or biceps, confirming them as rebels.  
  
It had been twenty-seven days since she’d been visited by Agatha Wormwood. Sigalda knew it had been that long, for at each full rotation of the guard she scratched a vertical line into the dank stone wall of her cell, and had done so twenty-seven times. She had not much else to do, for her life had become only her unforgiving cot, three dank stone walls and a fourth barrier of rusty vertical bars.  
  
Sigalda slid off of her bunk and onto all fours, her thick round butt jiggling behind her in thong-clad near nakedness. Her leering and catcalling jailors seemed to prefer that she wear her trademark metal brassiere and bottom, with the reminder of her station fueling their predictable depravities. Her pink nipples, lighter in color than her brown skin, tingled and stood pert beneath the metal cups as she crawled subserviently. It was a disgrace for a princess of Zwei to act in such a subservient manner to a bunch of regicidal ruffians, but it was a price she promised herself she would pay. They were expecting her to crawl, and expecting her to hate it, and she would not disappoint them.  
  
Even while being crudely humiliated and tormented by Agatha those weeks before, Sigalda had learned things of use - most importantly, that the rebel general Starr and Agatha Wormwood might be at cross purposes, and that the old crone’s aim was not the kingdom of Zwei, but Alsansam. If she could learn that much even in the midst of such torture, Sigalda reasoned, she could learn more, especially from grinning, horny brutes far less wily than Agatha. So she would feather the nest as much as she could for a possible escape.  
  
Each of the three men doffed their protective leathers, leaving nothing but dirty woolen britches beneath. Behind each button-fly a heavy bulge of cock and balls was obvious. They were already partially erect, they were as conditioned to her “feeding time” as she herself had become. Under the normal run of things t would have pleased Sigalda to no end to spring from her crawling posture and ram her fist into their balls, and she could have done it, too. Even without the greatsword Alsansam, she had the lean and supple musculature of a practiced warrior and more than enough hand-to-hand skill to deal with three louts. But that would have been unwise. Yes, she could handle three like them, but what about the ten behind them and the hundred behind those ten? If Starr decided she was dangerous enough to shackle and restrain, her chances of escape would go from one in a thousand to one in a million, and the procession of mead-stinking men who served as her captors could just as easily do to her in chains what they’d been doing to her, unshackled, for twenty-seven days. To say nothing of the dozens of innocent throats that would be cut for every nose she broke and set of testicles she crushed.  
  
All this was reason enough to forego violence and resistance, for now. There was also an additional reason, one she was less eager to admit: these men, brutish and foul, were nonetheless the only method she had to calm the quaking need inside her. A need that seemed to roll from within her nubile young core in heart-palpitating waves.  
  
The center man, six feet tall and broad as a barrel, unbuttoned his long johns and let his fat, piss-leaking cock fall free, right at Sigalda’s eye level. The others surrounded her as she took the girthy organ in one hand with a look of embarrassed disgust, and they spoke to each other as about what a whore she was, the things they intended to do, and how much they hated her royal status and all it stood for.  
  
“She looks fuckin’ thirsty,” teased the man on her right, his angular face more ghoulish than handsome, and decorated with burst blood vessels from his regular nights of drinking. He was the sort of man who would pump up against a woman in an alley to cop a feel and lift a coin purse while he was at it. “Imagine if the people of Zwei knew their precious White Lion liked to drink piss!” He took a handful of Sigalda’s short blonde hair and yanked her head in controlling fashion.  
  
“S-silence!” Sigalda spat, using the common tongue. “I’d never like such, it’s only that I’m forced by thee!” Yet she was blushing, and did not resist as the men on either side of her knelt and began running their hands over her body, groping her breasts beneath the scant coverage of her armor, twisting her nipples and taking handfuls of her bust before sliding her iron boob-coverings up and out of the way entirely. Instead, she moaned at the fire their grubby thief hands were stirring in her breasts, her face reddening further as jets of milk began to spray from her nipples and onto the floor. Ever since Agatha’s visit she had been lactating heavily, and Starr’s men seemed to love milking her like a cow and drinking their fill. She always struggled, but only a little; she pulled away and called them curs and scoundrels, never letting them know the absolute pleasure that tore through the flesh of her bosom with each rough squeeze and expulsion of milk.  
  
“I love sucking these big tits!” the third man wailed spastically, and he was as forceful and lewd as the rest of his brethren, his hands calloused and his breath stinking of mead and tobacco. He darted his head in and took her pink nipple in his mouth, momentarily revealing a row of crooked teeth. To look at him, Sigalda could imagine him peeping in windows and tying lit sulphur matches to the tails of stray cats. It should have disgusted her, but instead she cried out as the suction of his mouth, and the milking motion of his groping hand, drew spurt after spurt of milk from the tip of her painfully erect nipple, exactly the point where Agatha’s accursed needles had lodged. The feeling of release was so powerful that Sigalda moaned. The man’s opposite hand cupped one of her toned, powerful buttocks and squeezed roughly, kneading the pliant flesh.  
  
The opposite guard tucked a questing hand behind the scant triangular plate protecting her pussy, sliding a finger in between her wet cunt lips. “She’s fuckin’ soaked!” he exclaimed. “God, this princess is a real fuckin’ whore!” But it was the first, fattest man who had his cock in Sigalda’s hand, spraying brief bursts of yellow piss onto her chin and neck as she milked it.  
  
“Open your mouth, you fucking toilet!” he growled, and the princess obeyed just in time to begin to catch the thick stream of urine that was so forceful it seemed to ricochet and splash on her teeth and leak out of the corners of her lips. To not obey would have invited a beating and a pissing-on anyway with nothing of value gained, or so she told herself. But it also allowed that fat, pregnant stream of urine to pound heavily into the back of her mouth, tickling areas that had been made supernaturally sensitive. It was no mystery why they did it - they hated her, hated the nobility, and like all vandals they liked to destroy beautiful things and mark them as conquered. Many of the guards in the rotation had family members she had personally killed defending the crown, and gleefully told her so while their piss-spewing prick helmets were scraping her tonsils. It was their pleasure and vengeance to humiliate and mark her, and so Sigalda had been forced to drink the hot, steaming piss of dozens of men each day. She told herself she was bearing the cross of their cruelty as she had to to persevere, but the truth was, her throat and mouth were so sensitive and wanton that the long, copious blasts of piss nearly made her cum as they exploded in her mouth or throat. Another gift from Agatha’s curse, and one she could scarcely hide as she shuddered to orgasms while being used as a personal latrine. On the first day she’d demanded water instead and been left to stew in her thirst. By the end of the first week, she began to obey their commands and open her mouth, even if her face was twisted into an accusatory grimace that was half-cute and half furious. And by day twenty-seven, she actually grew excited when guards arrived at her door after a night of drinking, bladders distended and ready to unload in her throat. She hated herself for it, and the way she felt compelled to crawl to them, hated her rationalizations and what Agatha had done.  
  
Of course, this was not the only way they tormented her. The guards took every liberty with her most intimate places, often slurping their foul tongues over every inch of her perfectly proportioned young form and making cruel jokes as she shuddered with unwelcome pleasure. Balancing her upside down on her neck and splaying her legs wide, they licked at her pussy and asshole sloppily, like dogs at a bowl, laughing together every time she had an orgasm from her clit being tongued and bitten by a succession of crooked-toothed, ugly men. They held her aloft and slid their greasy, long dicks into her armpits or the crevice behind her knees, making new clefts in her body that most would never even consider. Sigalda had been renowned for her athleticism and beauty as the princess knight, and was more fair than any of the wives or girlfriends these men had ever bedded. She was uncharted territory. Occasionally, a guard would bring a grease pencil and they would draw images of spewing dicks on her brown skin, or write “TOILET” on her forehead in the common tongue and make her service their dicks with the label attached. On one occasion they had blindfolded her and challenged her to identify each guard by the smell of his unwashed dick. To Sigalda’s great shame, it was a task she had managed. Each rotation of guards had fucked her and made her suck cock, balls and ass each day, such that she could tell them apart by the foul scent of their hairy balls and the pungent taste of their dick cheese.  
  
She swallowed three, four, five times as the heavyset guard pissed into her mouth, and each time, a shudder of pleasure went through her body. Tears welled in her eyes as she extended her hands to each side and jacked the long, half-hard penises of the men on either side, and the sight of her throat working - swelling and contracting with each swallow - was unspeakably lewd. “I wish all our fallen brothers could see us now,” growled the heavyset man, reaching forward to fishhook Sigalda’s mouth with his dirty thumb. “They’d love to see this high-class dark-skinned bitch princess is nothing more than a fuckin’ comfort woman!” Sigalda glared, and even that small defiance seemed to anger him, as he turned and dropped his underthings, baring his large and excessively hairy behind. “Get your fuckin’ royal tongue up my ass, you bitch!” he ordered.  
  
Sigalda hesitated but a moment before a firm palm slammed into the back of her head and forced her forward and between the man’s cheeks. His position was undignified - hunched partway over, hands on knees, his barrel belly hanging in front of him with thick haunches protruding behind, but of course, Sigalda’s position was even more humiliating as she was forced to plant her palms on a pair of large buttocks and get to work. “Mmmph!” she gasped, eyes going wide and blue, as her nose was unceremoniously rammed straight up against the raised, brown anal rim. It was puffy, wrinkled, and surrounded by coarse hairs, not to mention totally soaked with sweat. Male musk exploded into her sinuses and made her entire body tingle.  
  
“Get your tongue up my shitpipe, you big-tittied brown bitch!” the man called back, glowering over one shoulder. “The only thing you fuckin’ royals are good for is cleaning an honest man’s turd-tunnel!”  
  
She was shoved forward again, and extended her tongue to start slurping wetly around the large man’s ringpiece, running her tongue over his expansive taint and the fat, cum-laden balls that hung in a bloated sack by her neck. She could taste every drop of musky sweat and feel every wrinkle of his balls on her tongue, and not for the first time felt an almost debilitating sense of shame. It was moments like these that made her wonder if it would be more honorable simply to take her own life, but of course, if she did so, there would be no hope of saving the kingdom.  
  
“Nnngh! Thou art a pig!” she moaned into the portly guard’s rectal recesses. “Is it not enough for thee to take my virtue- nnnnnnngh!” She was cut off as a hard, long, hot cock was shoved deep into her pussy from behind. She was on all fours as she serviced the guard, her was dipping his hips to accommodate her, and a second man had seen fit to mount her from behind. His long prong slid into her sopping pussy as readily as knife into fresh bread, hilting itself quickly and causing her own sordid lubrication to leak and splatter beneath them. Sigalda’s thighs trembled and almost gave way as the man began to thrust, bringing the lewd sound of her large, round ass clapping against his pelvis. The way she bounced against their cocks was a favorite attribute of Sigalda’s, and one they opted to test at every opportunity.  
  
The fat man reached behind himself and grabbed a fistful of Sigalda’s short hair, pulling her even more forcefully into his sweat-slick, musky nethers. Making sure that she could not retreat, he grunted and unleashed a long, trombone-like burst of flatulence directly into her face, an emission that sputtered and flapped due to being partially blocked. Sigalda’s hands scrabbled for purchase on his rear like a rock-climber about to tumble down a cliff facing, but she couldn’t dislodge herself without absorbing the full brunt in her mouth and nose. “_That’s_ what I fuckin’ think of your virtue, you big-assed slut!” the man called back through the laughter of his comrades. “Courtesy of the mutton I had for dinner!”  
  
Her mind whirled, half-dizzy from the stench and her utter humiliation. This moment was perhaps the closest that Sigalda had been to to calling off the charade and her well-laid plans, and simply tearing the fat man’s penis off right then and there. Sure, she might be beaten and raped anyway, but she would have the pleasure of seeing the disgusting bastard bleeding out before she died. The reason she didn’t was the relief she was feeling in other areas - the long cock sawing in and out of her wet pussy and poking against her cervix with every deep thrust. The owner of the invading member had put a thumb in her ass as well, and the combination of feelings was causing starbursts to explode in her loins.  
  
This feeling of fullness, of deep penetration, was something she had come to secretly crave. A part of her knew this compulsion was what Agatha meant by twisting or destroying her will… but in spite of how it might play into the witch’s plans, Sigalda was unable to resist the need. Her jailors cocks - many of which were quite large - were the only parts of them that she had come to respect, a fact that made her disgusted with herself but was nonetheless true. When they fucked her deep and without mercy - trying to tear apart her body with their dicks in a manner that only a hateful, rapist partner could achieve - it was the only thing that could quench the volcanic need inside her. Many nights Sigalda had lain in bed, her throat wet and burning, her intimate places clenching with what almost seemed like hunger. Her womb itself had become a flower of pleasure, waiting to be pollinated, and as she trembled at night and fingered herself, she could feel her ovaries throbbing, hard little balls of pent-up tension just beneath the muscled, taut surface of her abdomen.  
  
This was why she couldn’t stop her breath from racing, and moans from escaping her lips as she was pounded from behind. Even though she should have hated what was happening, Sigalda began to gasp, exhaling with full throated moans as her long, agile pink tongue burrowed into the sweaty asshole in front of her and began to swab. Her repeated utterances came in regular time with the cock battering her pussy, one squeak or moan every half second or so, sometimes interspersed with a curse that was rendered inaudible as she swabbed the dank innards of her captor’s crap-chute.  
  
“Fuck, this bitch loves it!” said the third man, the only one not penetrating or being serviced. He was unabashedly stroking his long, cum-leaking fuckmeat just inches from the side of her face, his eyes alternating between the clapping and bouncing of Sigalda’s athletic teenage tomboy assmeat, and her furious, regal face being forced to make out with his compatriot’s spit-shined, swollen ass-ring.  
  
“Starr is a fuckin’ smart one, and no mistake!” said the ruffian pounding her ass. “He’s got this stupid whore worshiping us like _we’re_ the nobles!” His voice grew more strained as he spoke, as though he were on the verge of orgasm, and it would be no surprise if that were the case, for Sigalda’s insides were of surpassing warmth and tightness. Indeed, many of the guards believed that the princess was an even better concubine than a warrior, the way her tanned and muscled body moved as her pink, tight pussy adhered to their dicks, gripping so tightly that her vaginal walls clung briefly to their shafts as they withdrew on each stroke.  
  
“Fuck, I can’t hold it no more!” came a cry, and the men jerking his prong near her face took a grip on Sigalda’s golden mane and turned her to face him while speeding up his stroking to a fever pitch. The princess’ face was wet with sweat, her eyes watering, but in the throes of being fucked so hard she immediately opened her mouth wide and extended her tongue, displaying several long, wiry ass-hairs stuck on each side of her lips. Seeing the once-dignified Lioness of Zwei looking like such a cumdump only hurried the man to his climax, and he uncorked stream after stream of lumpy, thick cum all over her mouth, nose and cheeks. His seed didn’t so much spurt from his throbbing cock as explode from it in a messy spray, and Sigalda cried out in lust as her face was painted with a lattice of sperm. The former beneficiary of her rimjob, having been brought to the edge himself by her tongue work, quickly turned and drilled into her mouth with an enormously thick prong that seemed broad as a hitching post, causing Sigalda’s jaw to creak. There were brutal spurting and splashing noises as he emptied himself into her, blasting huge gouts of semen into her throat after hilting himself without regard to her ability to breath. He kept himself there, clutching her head with two large hands, holding her in place while her eyes watered and her throat bulged with swallow after swallow. Five times, six times, seven times.  
  
Sigalda could only gurgle around the enormously thick meat bat in her throat. Bubbles of cum shot out of her nose and her eyes grew slightly unfocused as lack of oxygen, combined with the brutal penetration, seemed to dull her wits. As this was going on, the guard fucking her pussy groaned out with lewd intent and said he, too, could take no more, proceeding to hunch over her and shudder like a man in the throes of a fit, his long penis carving all the way to her cervix and filling her womb with spurt after spurt of his ball juice. Every muscle in Sigalda’s body seemed to tense and she lost all track of herself as orgasmic sensations exploded in her throat and pussy. It was as if her entire body was a well-teased clit that had just been sent over the edge, and this was the foul service that only these men could provide her in her imprisoned state, even if she hated them and the thought of being their plaything. A massive spray of her own lubrication splashed onto the floor in a shower as her inner muscles contracted, and there was no doubt she was having an enormous, soul-crushing orgasm during her humiliation and rape. There was simply no way she could deny it.  
  
Sigalda slumped to the floor when it was over, and in the minutes before they uncoupled themselves and began to stuff their sated privates back into their underwear and armor, the men made sure to call her a ‘stupid toilet’ and a ‘royal garbage can’ while letting the last spurts of their genetic material splatter her body. The two men who hadn’t yet emptied their bladders did so, each taking aim at one of her round buttocks that upthrust from her prone body. A heavy creampie poured from her pussy and onto the stone floor, mixing with their streams as they hosed her own and joked that they might turn her caramel skin yellow if they pissed long enough. Totally enervated, Sigalda could not even muster the energy to object to their insults.  
  
With a clatter, the long-ago promised food tray was placed next to her head, which was pressed cheek-to-stone against the floor. The guards may have been sexually satisfied but they still hated her and what she represented; this had been made clear by what they fed her each day.  
  
“We brought you something fuckin’ special!” a guard cackled, and then closed the cell door with a turn of his key. “So eat up. You gotta stay strong if yer gonna continue with your fuckin’ princess duties and all, servin’ patriots like us!” They all laughed, and Sigalda rolled her eyes over to see what they’d given her. It was a piece of decadent, many-layered cake, white with white icing and one strawberry on top. The rebels, who hadn’t been able to afford such an extravagant dessert in their wildest dreams, no doubt saw such things as emblematic of the nobility. Of course, they’d given this cake an extra topping. The white icing was slathered with criss-crossing ropes of yellowish white semen from what must have been a dozen different sources.  
  
“A fitting meal for a bitch like you!” catcalled one of the guards. “A real delicacy! A splendid fuckin’ rich noble-type cake, it is, with plenty of cum, pubes, and dick cheese!” They tossed their heads back and laughed like donkeys. They knew she would eat it, since the alternative was starvation. Sigalda, in her desperation to remain strong, had eaten a succession of jerked-off-on meals in the proceeding weeks, and the way the taste of semen excited her sensitive tongue and throat made her feel more disgusted with herself than she did with the sperm-soaked food.  
  
Her face red with a mixture of anger and humiliation, Sigalda lay on the floor until her hunger overpowered any inhibitions she might have had, crawled to the tray, and began to eat. As she did, and the leering guards laughed and pointed at her erect nipples and her wet pussy, she plotted on how, when the day came, she would kill them all.  
  
  


\- 3 -

  
  
  
It was later that night, with Sigalda close to sleep and the torches on the wall casting long shadows into her cell, that she heard the clang of a sword tip against the bars of her enclosure. The large guard rotation had just left (though not before making her shake her ample, athletic behind and beg for their semen to be splashed across it, of course), and replaced by the light rotation, usually a single guard, that stood watch until morning while the others were resting from their depravities. Sigalda’s well-trained ears detected that this guard was light on his feet, but probably still a clumsy dumbass who had walked past her cell, swinging his blade, and hit the bars accidentally.  
  
Just as she was about to doze off again, a sprightly voice hissed out from the hallway, perhaps six meters distant from her wooden bench. “Hsssst! Princess!”  
  
He sounded young, this guard. A thrill-seeker wanting to lose his virginity, bribing his elders for the purpose? Perhaps. And maybe she could get some information out of this one, about the state of the kingdom, and what was transpiring outside her cell. She had been in a total information blackout ever since Starr had sent her away.  
  
“Princess! Wake up!”  
  
But wait. It was a young voice, but it was one she knew. One that had pestered her day in and day out for years! Her blue eyes flew open and gleamed. The guard at her cell door was willowy, almost slight in stature. His breastplate and leather spaulders seemed to sag on him, and he was short. Very short for a guard. A teenager, perhaps, a young man draped in the garb of a soldier, his shoulders and chest yet too narrow to fill it out. Sigalda had seen such pretensions to manhood before.  
  
“Duncan!” she cried out, and rose off of her bench at once. A closer look revealed it could be no other. Even with his squire’s clothes replaced by bandit leathers and a helmet that hung over his eyeline, there was the neck-length chestnut hair to consider, the slim physique, and of course, the fact that he was a head shorter than Sigalda herself. “Art thou my rescuer? Have our allies arrived?”  
  
The small figure at the bars seemed to wince and look both ways as Sigalda raised her voice. “Quiet down!” he hissed back, and then Sigalda noticed the red sash at his waist and the way a dagger was tucked into his belt in the customary fashion of the Starr’s inner circle. Sigalda found herself immediately simmering with rage as a second possibility occurred to her.  
  
“Thou art a bigger brat than ever!” she scolded, her teeth barred to show an incisor that looked wickedly sharp. “To become a toad for the rebel army!”  
  
Duncan seemed to gulp and rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly, removing his helmet to reveal his blushing, youthful face. “N-no, I didn’t!” he objected, then paused, adopting a ‘who, me?’ sort of blame deflecting grin. “Well, yes, technically I did, but-”  
  
“TECHNICALLY?!” Sigalda growled fiercely, and cracked her knuckles. “When I make good my escape, I’ll wring thy scrawny-”  
  
“They recruited everyone!” Duncan interrupted, desperately trying to explain. Even though he was the guard and Sigalda the prisoner, for years their relationship had been that of mistress and servant, and though the Princess Knight had not been the sort to stand on ceremony, she was the sort who would tolerate no disrespect. (Or breast-ogling, for that matter.) Thus, the boy had learned to speak courteously to her, a habit he’d kept for all the years of his life. It seemed her temper was as bad as ever. Probably worse than ever, considering all that had happened.  
  
“They took all the servants into their ranks,” Duncan went on. “I told that leader of theirs, Starr, I was a pageboy in the royal house. I thought he would kill me, seeing as I was in the throne room that day, but he doesn’t realize that the late king tooke me in as a son. He asked if I wanted to be free of the royals to pursue my destiny, and I sure didn’t argue. So they let me join.” He was talking fast, almost flooding the air with information, and then paused to make sure Sigalda was listening. “Do you understand?”  
  
“Aye,” she replied, her face softening as she walked toward the bars. “Starr plans to do away with the aristocracy; t’would have done no good to acknowledge the crown’s bond to thee.”  
  
“He said he can’t do away with it,” Duncan added, his face carrying the expression of someone confused and hoping for help in interpreting his own words. “I heard him talking to one of his advisors, or whoever those men are, and Starr says part of the commonfolk still love the royals and he needs to destroy support for the crown. He would have killed you and dealt with dissenters, but the troops he was expecting from Garavant haven’t come.” He swallowed nervously. “He reasoned with the witch woman about it, and they argued.”  
  
_Does Garavant truly know what is happening here?_ Sigalda wondered. _Was Agatha lying to Starr was well?_ It was something to mull over, but the princess had other questions. She stepped right up to the bars, and the two were less than a foot apart now, allowing them to speak in a conspiratorial tone and still be heard. “Then what of my mother, and Ein? What does Starr plan to do?”  
  
Duncan did not respond to Sigalda’s question, instead staring wide-eyed at her large breasts, which were hanging with gravity-defying pertness in her trademark metal chestpiece just inches from his face. Once the princess realized this, she clouted him about the head. shouting: “Pervert! Pay attention!”  
  
Duncan winced and rubbed his head, but his focus seemed to return, along with a measure of hesitation. “Your mother, the queen… she is to re-marry in a special ceremony in one week’s time.”  
  
That stopped Sigalda and made her mouth drop open. “Marry!?” she gasped. None of what Duncan was saying made any sense. “To whom?”  
  
Duncan’s face immediately flushed and he tried to beg off in his fake-innocent trickster’s way, the same tone he’d taken whenever he was caught sneak food from the royal kitchen. “Uh, well, I dunno if it’s best to tell you, you seem kinda upset, so-”  
  
“Out with it, or I’ll clobber thee!” Sigalda threatened, clutching the cell bats intently. “To whom will she be wed?”  
  
Duncan gulped. “Uh, well… it’s not really to ‘who’. There’s gonna be a big ceremony for the public where she gets married to… uh... Thunderbolt.”  
  
Sigalda blinked, totally dumbstruck, and remained silent for a good three seconds. “But Thunderbolt is a horse!” she barked, reaching through the bars to grab Duncan by the shoulder and shake him. It was true. Thunderbolt was the breeding stallion from whom the most sturdy horses of the royal cavalry were sired, and really only had one job at the royal stables - passing on his genes. “It’s the best job in the kingdom!” the royal hostler had once told a teenage Sigalda, while tossing her a wink and stealing a glance at her shapely rear.  
  
“I know he’s a horse!” Duncan cried back. “Starr’s gonna make the royal family out to be unworthy by showing the queen is a deviant woman who holds congress with animals! She’s gonna fuck the horse right there in the city square!”  
  
“How _dare_ thee speak such filth to me about the queen!” Sigalda yelled.  
  
“I’m only repeating what they said!” Duncan whined, remaining wary of Sigalda’s reach and temper.  
  
“_Why_ would mother ever go along with such a farce?!” Sigalda objected. “Surely she would rather take her own life than be Starr’s instrument!”  
  
“She’s overcome with grief at the kingdom’s fall. She does whatever he wants, like there’s a spell on her or something.” Young Duncan’s expression shifted from one of nervousness to concern, plain to see on his expressive face. “It’s… difficult to watch. Did you not notice a change in her after the king died, even before the capital fell? As though she was not herself?” Both old companions stood in silence for a moment, contemplating what that meant. At last, Duncan spoke again. “Starr is mad. He rants about his dead wife and family, killed by nobles. He doesn’t care who he hurts,” Duncan explained. “He wishes for nothing less than the complete humiliation and disgrace of the royal family. He intends for the wedding to be a spectacle.”  
  
“We must stop it this madness,” Sigalda said. “And what of Ein? He was as kin to you as he was to me, even if not by blood.”  
  
Duncan’s face again grew nervous, and he blushed. “Starr made him the court jester,” Duncan explained. “As a joke I guess. But not like, a normal jester. He’s made to wear the outfit of a dancing girl, that barely covers everything, and they make him serve food and drink and tumble and tell jokes. Sometimes they make him sing and talk about how much he looks like a girl.” He paused with obvious discomfort, and even tugged his collar. “Sometimes they uh… do things to him.”  
  
Sigalda spat on the ground. “Those monsters and dogs, that call themselves men! Poor Ein is too delicate to be treated so shabbily!”  
  
“I think it’s his… uh… ‘delicateness’ that they like.”  
  
Sigalda punched Duncan in the shoulder. “Silence!” she objected. “He shall be rescued along with the others!”  
  
“On that score, I might have a plan,” Duncan offered, a gleam of mischief in his eye. Sigalda had seen it a dozen times, whether the boy had been stealing from the royal larder or secretly cutting strategic holes in her dressing screen. For once, she was glad to have him on her side. “I think Starr is starting to trust me more and more. If I can-”  
  
But he was interrupted by echoing rattle of a key in a lock, and the creaking of a door from down the hall, and they could speak no more. Swiftly, Duncan moved to put his helmet back on. “Guards!” he hissed. “Three of them, drunk by the look. Just play along!”  
  
He turned and peered down the hall and waved to a group of men that Sigalda couldn’t see. “Hey, fellows!” he called, trying to sound gruff and older than his age. “Fuckin’ great night, isn’t it? I was just telling this stupid brown-skinned bitch that her tits are huge and I’m gonna grab those big ol’ milk bags as much as I want and slap ‘em around and all!”  
  
Sigalda’s fingers clenched and unclenched around the cell bars as she glared a hole through her former squire. She took a step back, so as to create some distance between them, but not before hissing fiercely at him, her voice low but filled with vigor. _“I swear to thee, Duncan. If this visit was just a plot to grope me, I’ll murder thee!”_  
  
“_Just shut up and play along, Sigalda, for the sake of Zwei, the queen, and Ein too!_” he admonished in hushed tones, and then raised his voice so the approaching men could hear. “Well, fuckin’ guys, guess I’ll fuckin’ get going if you’re here to take over the watch-”  
  
But he was interrupted by the much older, larger, and _drunker_ guardsmen. “Heeey, it’s that kid, Starr’s errand boy!” one slurred. “You get the fuckin’ shit night detail? You should use this chance to pop your cherry, kid! This dumb fuckin’ whore is a real fuck machine!”  
  
Duncan blushed and tugged at his collar. “Uh, she suuuure is a stupid whore!” he agreed in his persuasive way, looking sideways at Sigalda, who gave him a death stare. “But I guess I’ll just get going, and-”  
  
The men then arrived at the bars proper, mead-stinking and disheveled, their noses red and their eyes bloodshot. These were the sort of cutthroats who were expert drinkers, and deft enough with a blade to slide one between two ribs even while utterly shitfaced. They clapped their hands on Duncan’s shoulders, making it clear he wasn’t going anywhere, blowing healthy doses of graf-laden breath in his face.  
  
“Awww, you fuckin’ chicken?” taunted the gangliest of the three. He seemed to have a face that was half-rat, with a long nose of surpassing ugliness. “This kid’s afraid of the pussy!” They burst out laughing together at the idea, a real knee-slapper to a trio of drunken fools who hadn’t been very bright to begin with. Duncan began to stammer, trying to find a way to take his leave, but was cut off at once before he could make further excuses.  
  
“You’re not in love with ‘er or anything, are you?” said another man, his voice emphasizing the word ‘love’ in an especially mocking tone. This caused Duncan to blush red beneath the visor of his helmet, and issue an immediate dismissal of the charge.  
  
“O-of course not!”  
  
“So what, you afraid of us seein’ you ain’t got hair on your pecker?” came another wheezing taunt. “Whip it out and get to work, boy! Seein’ this broad get fucked is almost as much fun as fuckin’ her me’self, and don’t require nearly as much work!”  
  
“Uh…” Duncan stuttered, unsure of what to say. In his usual schemes he’d been used to getting away with almost anything due to being a handsome lad; the maids and wenches in the palace kitchen would let him slink away with an extra portion no matter how flimsy an excuse he offered. Such things wouldn’t work on these men, though.  
  
“What was you talkin’ to her about?” came an interjecting voice, from the furthest man back. He seemed less drunk and less stupid, and the suspicious tone of the question made Sigalda’s heart start to beat faster. It wasn’t a ‘we’re just joking around’ question. It was a ‘I think you were up to no good’ question, and she hoped Duncan realized it and could come up with a suitable lie.  
  
“Talking?” Duncan asked, grinning sheepishly. And the men leaned forward and grabbed the smaller, younger male by the sash and pushed him up against the bars. His face had none of the drunken humor of his fellows, and he seemed on the verge of getting violent, his bloodshot eyes dancing with unsatisfied questions.  
  
“You were in the throne room,” the man growled. He was the oldest, his balding head wrapped in a tight bandana and a gold hoop ring in his ear. “Up against the wall with that little sissy prince. What are you, the royal family’s little butt boy?” Duncan struggled, but the man’s grip held fast. “Starr might have brought you into the fold, but a knife’ll fuckin’ fix that right quick.” Duncan gulped, and the other two men had stopped their drunken joking, falling silent. Even in their stupor they realized the sudden gravity of the situation.  
  
“You hear me, boy?” the man went on, raising his voice. “You a sympathizer, boy? You a fuckin’ sympathizer? You whisperin’ to this noble bitch here?!” His voice had risen to a yell, and he punctuated each question by rattling Duncan against the bars, repeating the accusation again and again. Sigalda’s heart was beating a mile a minute, watching events unfold. Bratty as he was, and as many times as he’d craned his neck to catch a glimpse of her breasts, she couldn’t bear to see Duncan gutted in front of her, not after reconnecting with him after nearly a month. She was just about to open her mouth to say something when Duncan cried out.  
  
“No!” the boy roared. “Take your fuckin’ hands off of me!” he added, and perhaps in surprise at the youth’s outburst, the man did. “I hate the fuckin’ royals and I hate this fucking shithole of a castle!” Duncan then turned to Sigalda, and their eyes met. “You stupid twat,” he groused at her, “crawl over here so I can show them the entire fuckin’ extent of our conversation.” His eyes pleaded with her to do it.  
  
Every part of it felt unnatural, and Sigalda suddenly felt vulnerable and more humiliated than ever. It was one thing for a bunch of disgusting rapists to see her in such a state - they were subhuman trash that she intended to kill. But Duncan, her loyal squire since childhood, ordering her when for so many years she was the one in command, seeing her crawl… her face burned with redness at the degrading change of station. What was he planning? Whatever it was, if it wasn’t enough to save their skins, there would be hell to pay. On all fours, Sigalda crawled over to near the bars. Amazingly, when she neared, Duncan reached through and grabbed her by the hair, dragging her roughly forward. She rose to her knees and her breasts pressed against the cell bars, bisected by one of the rusty iron lengths and hanging with brown-skinned fullness on either side.  
  
“I don’t give a fuck about this bitch!” Duncan asserted, and then, even more amazingly, gave one of Sigalda’s breasts a slap, drawing a cry of outrage. “She’s just a stupid tomboy whore with big tits! Even when she was always bossing people around in the castle like a dumb loudmouth, all I cared about was seeing her gigantic tits and ass!” He was putting on a performance for them, acting the part, but both he and Sigalda knew that this particular lie was rooted in truth, and her resulting annoyance and rage, though it served the act, was also true.  
  
“She’s the fucking worst,” Duncan went on. “The whole kingdom thinks she’s a big deal because she’s a Princess Knight and all, but she’s a huge ice queen that leaves every guy in the castle with blue balls because she walks around in this fucking absurd armor!”  
  
“My armor is sacred! T’was the birthright of six generations of princess knights!” Sigalda cried, unable to avoid participating. Her unvarnished anger and frustration at Duncan’s words only added to the sense that the two were not in collusion. The boy reached out and backhanded her across the face through the bars. He had struck her! Sigalda’s mind was clouded with rage. This was an imposition, a humiliation somehow greater than any she had suffered. Her loyal Duncan, backhanding her like she were a mouthy prostitute! Her muscles tensed.  
  
“Shut up, you big-butt skank!” the boy chastised, and if there was a twinkle in his eye like he was enjoying this after many years of meek servitude, he was most fortunate that Sigalda didn’t see it, as she might have bent the bars asunder in her rage and removed his head from his shoulders. “They were probably all slutty whores like you!”  
  
“I’LL KILL YOU, YOU LITTLE BRAT!” Sigalda roared, falling into the common speech, stinging from both the slap and Duncan’s words, which it was very obvious were based entirely on reality. The boy stepped deftly away from the bars, leaving her clawing hands to grasp at air, and the surrounding men burst into laughter again, defusing the tense situation at last.  
  
The leader of the men even dusted off Duncan’s shoulder, showing that his respect had been earned. “Alright, kiddo. Your story rings true enough,” he said. “So I guess tonight’s your lucky night!”  
  
Duncan, who had looked happy and ready to quit the premises, stuttered a bit again. “Lucky… oh, well, I-”  
  
The newcomers had the key to the cell door, and wasted no time in opening it, draping their hands about Duncan’s shoulders and leading him inside, where Sigalda waited, still pressed up against the. It was the leader of their squad, not Duncan, who called out to her.  
  
“Get over here, you fuckin’ tart,” he ordered. “And suck our young friend’s cock.”  
  
Sigalda’s eyes went wide, and as deep red as she was with embarrassment, Duncan’s face was redder at the lewd suggestion. Even in the midst of the men’s laughter, though, their eyes met and he gave her a sheepish shrug, as if to say ‘_well, guess we have to go along with it!’_  
  
Sigalda barred her teeth. _You little shit_, her expression returned. _I bet you had this planned all along._  
  
She knee-walked over to the four of them; Duncan was out front and seemed almost to be trembling as she approached. It occurred to her that if he had lusted after her as he’d claimed, this act might serve as the fulfillment of a dearly-held wish. She herself felt nothing but shame. Somehow, the perversion of their squire/knight bond was something worse than what was done to her in the dungeon on a daily basis. This was a young man she had grown up ahead of, and if his advances and curiosity about her bust size were annoying, they had been offset by many years of earnest work together. Moreover, she had cared for him, in the same way she had been fond of Old Galaine. It was crushing to think of another relationship perverted in the same way.  
  
Her hands rose up to his belt-buckle. The boy was wearing simple trousers that, like the rest of his getup, were too large for him. She looked up at him, he’d removed his helmet, letting his long brown hair fall about his neck and ears. His eyes were a light brown as well and seemed even in this strange situation to carry a reverence for her. He had long eyelashes, a pleasant face, and unlike the many other males who visited her on a daily basis, his skin was well-complexioned and without pockmarks, boils or scars. Sigalda felt a warmth in her loins and blinked, startled.  
  
_He’s grown up. He’s grown handsome, and I hardly noticed._  
  
She shook the feeling off. Even in the best of scenarios, she never would have admitted such feelings in a million years. Sigalda had never seen herself as the sort to fawn over a man’s looks. Now, by unfastening Duncan’s belt, she was crossing into a place from which their relationship would never return. But what choice did she have? She pulled his loose trousers down, expecting to see a smooth, skinny pelvis with a skin color similar to her own, and the hanging twig of his genitals, ready to be serviced.  
  
Everyone gasped. Except for Duncan, who had blushed and shut his eyes, knowing what was coming.  
  
“Holy shit!” said one of the men.  
“What the fuck?!” asked another.  
“Good lord!” said the third.  
  
It was Sigalda, though, who had the closest view of Duncan’s penis, that summed it up best.  
  
“It’s f-fucking huge!” she moaned, eyes wide. When talking of penises, it was natural to slip into the common tongue, that place of a thousand-and-one creative curse words. There was no other way to describe what she was seeing. Duncan’s cock, from base to tip, was nearly as long and thick as her arm, and hung down past his knee to below the bottom of her breasts. It was so thick, she couldn’t encircle it one of her hands. The boy’s balls, tight to his base in a smooth sack, were the size of coconuts. No _wonder_ his choice of britches had been on the loose side!  
  
Sigalda’s recalled those long nights she had spent with her hand between her legs, fingering herself, stuffing four digits into her wet quim, wishing for something with the length and girth to stimulate those places inside her that Agatha had seeded with lust. In those eyes-closed, guard-sleeping moments, she’d imagined a cock so large it would utterly wreck her insides and send her spiraling into a supernova of orgasms. Who knew that it had been close at hand, that she had dressed near it, strapped armor to her body near it, all-unknowing.  
  
Shuddering with shame, Sigalda leaned forward, used to hands to bring the massive tip to her mouth, and prepared to get to work.


	3. Episode 3 (Subbed)

Sigalda’s mouth. How long Duncan had longed for it.  
  
As his massive, spongy cock-crown butted up against Sigalda’s moist lips, the teenage boy flashed back effortlessly to their youth together. He had become her servant when he was six and she thirteen, before gaining even a vague awareness that boys and girls had parts that could interact, and even before taking his formal oath as a bondsman (bonds-boy, really) he had been totally smitten with her. During his time mopping battlements, forking hay and grooming horses, he took every chance he could to catch a glimpse of Sigalda. Sigalda at her lessons, Sigalda practicing archery, Sigalda crossing swords with Galain, squawking back and forth with her teacher.  
  
It was fair to say that he had desired her from the first time they met, when her mother the Queen introduced him with dismissiveness that was almost cold. “This castle boy shall be thy servant,” she said. “And as he grows older, Galain shall train him to be thy guardian as well.” Sigalda was already tall at that point, to a six-year-old low-born boy, she had seemed larger than life. And though the Queen had not given his name, he was impertinent enough, and young enough to give it himself.  
  
“I am Duncan, my lady!” he had blurted, cheeks rosy, voice high. “I’ll serve you well!” The queen had curled her lip and told him to use the noble tongue when addressing Sigalda. Yet the princess herself had not balked, and extended a hand to tousle his mop of brown hair as he stood waist height. She’d had long hair then; her body was softer, her skin lighter, her hands less calloused by the sword handle. In that moment, serving her had been all he’d desired.  
  
Now, _she_ was being made to serve _him_. If the whole godforsaken rebellion had one scintilla of a silver lining amidst the murder and impropriety, it was that their birth no longer divided them. In fact, things were tilted in the other direction. Duncan squeezed his eyes shut. Unwieldy and slow to rise as his extremely large penis was, it was all he could do to stop himself from cumming immediately, just from the _idea_ of her.   
  
Her body, inflamed by the lust curse of Agatha Wormwood, glistened with dark-skinned, sweat-speckled perfection. Her generous musculature undulated gracefully; Duncan could see every striation and detail of her abs and shoulder and biceps, and yet as impressive as these were, her large and shapely breasts were still enormous, as though her body fat were miraculously concentrated entirely in her chest and the round bubble of her rear. Truly, Sigalda’s was a physique unlike that of any other woman Duncan had observed, standing out even among the uniformly beautiful ladies of the Order of the White Lion. It was clear that she was torn. Her mind was as defiant and grouchy as ever, no doubt, but her body was issuing a craving she could not control.  
  
He wanted to satisfy her, to prove to her that he could be her knight, to prove that a servant boy, a low-born boy, had worth. And honestly, to simply show her how large his penis was, a point of pride he’d kept hidden. Yet he couldn’t simply fall into her arms and slake her thirst. He was expected by the drunken rebel men to treat her a certain way.  
  
Currently, most of her indignation was muted by her obvious interest in his cock. “Duncan, thy size!” she moaned, and pressed her face into the underside of his crown, pursing her lips together and planting a kiss on the rim of his throbbing, swollen, nerve-rich tissue there. He was massive, a trait she seemed to appreciate then if at no other time. She was using two hands to hold him, poising this pisshole in front of her face and gazing at it with a look of earnest lust. “How did thee hide this?”  
  
“I… I don’t know, Princess!” Duncan moaned, biting his lower lip. In truth, he hadn’t had to hide much until relatively recently, his ‘growth spurt’ down below coinciding roughly with his entrance into life as a teenager, adding (a little) width to his shoulders and (a little) height to his frame. What he had to show was on full display, with his leathers and britches fallen to pool around his ankles, leaving the tight, lean shanks of an athletic servant boy. His streamlined thighs framed the delta from which his ruddy-complexioned organ sprouted like a python. Sigalda kissed her way down his length, rubbing her mouth on the underside of his raised, pulsing cum-tube, until she reached his balls. It took both of her hands to cradle his sack, one palm barely large enough for each heavy, moist, smooth nut.  
  
“And thy balls!” Sigalda moaned, nuzzling her face into each cum-loaded orb in turn. She opened her mouth and planted a wet, open mouthed kiss on his left testicle, devouring his scent and the sweat there, using her tongue to roll gather and suck and scrape his scrotal skin. She was kneeling, her thick, athletic thighs pressed down on her calves. From his vantage, even at his relatively short height, Duncan could see her hips and the heart-shaped curve of her tight and shapely bottom. Her back was arched, and everything from the tight definition of her shoulder blades to the enticing, caramel furrow of her spine were his to behold. He wanted to throw himself into the tryst, and confess that in all of his days imagining what he might do with his strangely prodigious organ, he had thought about none other than her. But he was restrained by the part he was forced to play. If she was allowed to take control, to simply _use him_ to satisfy her needs as if she were his servant again, the three rebel guardsmen would realize at once that their relation was tender and true. He could not allow himself to be used by her as nothing more than another tool to serve, as if he was dutifully handing her cock instead of her gauntlets.  
  
Duncan closed his eyes. He could hear the slobbering, eager breath of the rebel soldiers as they exhaled through mead-slick mouths, eager to watch the spectacle. His plan would not work if they had even the slightest doubt about his loyalty. He had to do something.  
  
He bonked her on the nose with his cocktip.  
  
The look of furious indignation on her face pleased him, not just because of his own catharsis but because it meant the _real_ Sigalda was still there, curse or no curse. Confident as Agatha Wormwood was that she could break Sigalda’s will, the old crone really had no idea how deep the princess’ foul temper and streak of haughty defiance ran. Duncan knew, though. How many times had she reproached him? Clouted him about the shoulders, scolding him for being late, for handing her the wrong piece of armor, for trying to steal a peek at her perfectly-formed, caramel-colored breasts? Too many to count. Once, after she overheard him confiding to a kitchen boy that she had the ‘biggest bubble butt in the kingdom’, she had chased him about the training area for over an hour.  
  
There was no doubt that much of what the rebels said about Sigalda was true. She _was_ arrogant, supremely confident in her purpose and abilities. She _had_ killed rebel soldiers and their supporters, by the hundreds. And as far as the struggle of the servant class, while Sigalda wasn’t precisely cruel, she wasn’t sympathetic, either. To her, everything was already in its proper place. Duncan had once told her that he wished to be a Knight of Order of the White Lion, like her, and she had dismissed this dream immediately. “‘Tis silly of thee to say so, Duncan,” she’d said, not even looking at him as she fastened a gauntlet. “Only those of royal birth may become knights.”  
  
He had left the room, rather than letting her see him cry.   
  
She had been so sure of his unsuitability to be a knight, he had believed it himself. It was the cruelest thing she had ever said to him, and yet she was so privileged by blood to dash his dreams, she did not even remember it. Meanwhile, Ein, who was ill-suited to be a warrior in just about every way possible, was granted her endless patience and protection, regardless of the prince’s utter lack of muscle tone or aptitude with a sword, with which he fumbled around adorably at every lesson, despite Duncan’s extra efforts to teach him. Even so, Sigalda showed Ein every indulgence, simply because he was of royal blood and Duncan a low-born squire. Duncan remembered that, and he focused on that memory and bonked her on the nose with his cock again. “Say you’re a dumb bitch who should have been fetching my sandwich!” he ordered, reaching down to put a hand in Sigalda’s hair, swallowing his fear. Previously, any unwarranted touching would have resulted in a swift beating, but now was not the time for any half-measures.  
  
Steam nearly came out of Sigalda’s ears as she clenched her teeth, and stopped licking him regardless of her needy body. “I’d sooner die than say such things to thee!” she replied, her light blue eyes intense. Duncan could see the rage stewing inside her, fighting for control with her lust. She was the Princess of Zwei, and he just a lowly servant boy and squire! “Thou art the same as the rest of these scum! Once I get out of this, I’ll beat thee into a pulp, tear off that snake between your legs, and shove it up thy bung!”  
  
_There’s my Sigalda_, he thought. _You foul-tempered and arrogant bitch_. He would have need of her stubborn nature for his plan to work, for she would have to endure far worse than what he’d give her, and come out the other side alive.  
  
“Ho, she’s gettin’ fuckin’ worked up, boy!” cried one of the drunken guards, and shared a laugh with his cohort. They were enjoying the show, which was good. Duncan had to make sure, when it was over, they didn’t have even the slightest inkling of his connection to the princess. He pressed one of his boots forward and ground the tip against the sopping lips of her pussy, exposed as they were by her lewd squatting stance, and the effect was immediate. Sigalda moaned and her tongue poured from her lips like a panting dog. She sounded like a bitch in heat, her objections forgotten.  
  
“Say it, or I won’t fuck you!” Duncan barked, and then, gathering his courage, backhanded her across the face. “I’ll leave you to stew in here with your lust gnawing at your fuckin’ insides!”  
  
Sigalda looked up at him desperately, with clenched teeth, her nostrils expanding with intense breaths. “Bastard!” she growled, her cheek reddening. “You DARE slap me, a Knight of the Order of-”  
  
WHAP!   
  
He backhanded her across the face again, crying “Shut up, you stupid toilet!” Duncan felt an absolute feeling of power that conflicted him greatly. “The only thing you’re good for is sucking my balls and swallowing my cum! How many assholes have you licked today, you shit-eating piece of trash?” In that moment, he could see how the others of Starr’s crew could engage in the acts he’d seen - the rapes, the toying with vulnerable women, the teasing of Prince Ein. It was intoxicating, and something an unscrupulous man might get used to. For them, it was their vengeance for a lifetime of servitude under the royal thumb. And for him, the feeling was even more acute. How many years had she bossed him around? Chased him for his peeking? Called him a doddle-head or a fool or a silly boy? Cockteased him endlessly with revealing armor? “I’ll just leave you, so help me I will. You’ll be left to fuck these jokers, whose cocks have no hope of reaching deep enough to scratch your itch.”  
  
For a frightful moment he thought Sigalda would rise up and pop his head off like a wine cork. Her eyes were positively _blazing_ with anger. But when he punctuated the threat by moving to pick up his britches and exit the cell, she at least lurched into action with desperate submissiveness. “N-no!” she moaned, gripping lewdly onto his bare leg as she fell forward and lay on one hip like a snail. “Gods damn it, I’ll-”  
  
“Say it!” Duncan barked, looking down with what he hoped was an authoritarian expression, despite his being a foot shorter than Sigalda and many years her junior. He removed his helmet to let his brown hair fly wild. “Say you’re a stupid cunt who is only of use to make my dinner!”  
  
Sigalda gritted her teeth, face burning with blushing embarrassment, and looked at Duncan’s cock hopelessly. All that fat, throbbing boymeat! She wanted it, _needed_ it to fill her insides. But Duncan’s slurs were worse than those thrown her way by the guards who fucked her each day. Those men were fat, grotesque fools who knew no better than to speak in such a harsh way. Duncan had been raised in the castle, served her directly. Even having implied earlier that his words were an act, they had the ring of truth! It was so humiliating to be scorned by a young servant boy, but god, that smooth, fat, hanging donkey dick-  
  
“I… I’m just a stupid cunt who should have been making thy dinner,” Sigalda blurted pathetically, and Duncan’s eyes gleamed in a way that made her angry all the more. That little shit was actually enjoying this! Sure it was part of his plan, but he intended to get his jollies as well, as if having her service his massive dick wasn’t reward enough!  
  
“You should have shut your cunt mouth instead of ordering me around,” Duncan prompted.  
  
“A-aye,” Sigalda stammered, reaching out to stroke Duncan’s cock. “I, I should have shut my mouth-”  
  
“You’re a dumb slut who enjoyed flaunting her huge tits and ass all over the castle,” Duncan went on. Sigalda’s eyes went wide with fury, and upon seeing this, the boy clicked his tongue and turned away, making to leave again, causing her to react at once.  
  
“W-wait! Yes, I- I loved to show off my huge tits and ass! I’m a dumb slut!”  
  
“Good!” Duncan said, and slapped her across the face a third time, before stepping forward and pressing his smooth, heavy scrotum into her face, drowning her in the pregnant weight of his cum-swollen balls, letting her suck and inhale and sniff the hot, clean sweat on his nuts. “Finally! You love getting treated this way, don’t you? You needed a lowborn to break you like a wild horse!”  
  
Sigalda moaned hot breath all over Duncan’s nuts. A stream of hot lubrication dripped like honey from the puffy folds of her sex and onto the cell floor. “Nnngh yes! Yes, whatever you say! P-please, Duncan, my body is on fire-”  
  
“Shut up, you brown-skinned, big-butt bitch!” Duncan interrupted, and then forced Sigalda’s face against his ballsack again. Gods, having his hand in her short blonde hair, controlling her, was heaven! It really was like breaking in a horse, he decided, fraught with satisfaction and danger, and the satisfaction of bringing her to heel. He could almost feel the heat coming off her body, especially from between her legs, and the wetness of her mouth was unspeakable. She moaned lewdly as she sniffed and sucked his nuts with lewd, wet, sloppy tongue kisses, worshiping him until he shoved her back and took his tool in hand at the mid-shaft, steadying it in a horizontal path that ended with her inviting mouth. She panted, her cheeks flush, her lips glistening and moist… and then opened her mouth and extended her tongue in a gesture of submission, her round ass seated on her calves, her breasts hanging in gravity-defying perfection, showing painfully erect pale pink nipples that contrasted with her caramel skin.  
  
“Beg for it,” Duncan growled in his best man-voice, his voice nearly breaking in the attempt. “None of that haughty speech. Use the low speech.”   
  
“Please, fuck my throat, pussy, and ass,” Sigalda moaned, her eyes fixated on Duncan’s long, fat shaft. It extended well over a foot from his smooth, trim pelvis, thick as her arm. She could barely contemplate what it might feel like, burrowing inside her, reaching those throbbing places infected by Agatha’s spell. She only knew she _needed it_. It wasn’t fair, but she _needed it_. “Gods, such a huge horse cock!”  
  
“I’ll do it if you promise to obey me from now on,” Duncan said, and if the heckling (and now, masturbating) rebel guards found this phrase to be odd, they gave no indication.”  
  
Sigalda blushed and turned her head slightly. “Aye, I’ll… be thy servant, Duncan.”  
  
“Call me ‘Master’.”  
  
“... Master.”  
  
Duncan nodded with approval. “So ask me, slave to master.”  
  
Sigalda gulped and her throat worked enticingly. Her cheeks were redder than ever with embarrassment, but that wasn’t all that was making her skin flush. Her body was out of control with arousal, and in that state, she would say anything. Do anything. And the fact that it was Duncan simultaneously made it brutally humiliating, but also somehow _safe_. Not because he was only acting dominant - he wasn’t acting anymore, not really - but because she trusted him. He had never left her side since he was a boy. If anyone could be trusted to bring her to such a low place, well-  
  
She opened her mouth and let her tongue wiggle, showing him how wet and hot and slick it was inside. Leaning forward, she planted a kiss on his leaking cocktip, smearing her lips with a dollop of his pre-seed, before establishing smoldering eye contact and speaking in the common tongue. “Please, Master, use my huge breasts as much as you like,” she offered, raising them up with her hands to smother his large shaft, pressing the soft spheres together using her forearms. The sweat on her skin, combined with her saliva and Duncan’s pre-cum, made a slick passage for his girth, and Duncan bit his bottom lip with arousal.  
  
“Nnngh!” he moaned. “I’ve wanted to fuck your tits since the first day I saw you!” It was the absolute truth, and Duncan struggled to hold on during the fulfillment of a wish he’d had ever since he peeked and saw her large, perfectly-formed breasts for the first time. The Queen’s famous set of knockers were larger, but Sigalda’s were an absolutely perfect shape, without even the smallest hint of sag, and plenty large as well. How many nights had he laid on his bunk in the servant’s quarters, fantasizing about those round, full, dark-skinned knockers? So many!   
  
He began to thrust his hips, sliding his long, fat pole through the cylindrical passage formed by Sigalda’s pressed-together tits. The three drunken guards were catcalling, slurring words, tell him to give it to the bitch and really _fuck the shit out of her fat jugs_, but he shut his eyes and concentrated only on what was important to him - Sigalda, and the amazing feeling of finally touching her in an intimate way. It felt so good that the other men present were little more than bothersome gnats, and their words seemed to fade away into the background, overpowered by the breathing and moans of he and the princess.  
  
“They’re... so sensitive!” Sigalda choked out, panting and kissing his cocktip whenever a thrust brought it within reach of her mouth. Her words were thus punctuated by wet smooches as his battering ram regularly mashed her lips firmly against her teeth. “Oh… my body… I… I can’t stop it!” She cried out orgasmically, and Duncan could feel her body shudder. “Thy cock scraping against my flesh is like being… being fucked!”  
  
Duncan reached out to grasp her erect, swollen nipples, taking one each between thumb and forefinger, mashing them and grinding them as he pulled her breasts out and thrust between them, his long, smooth tool sawing back and forth in front of her face. She was electric to his touch, reacting instantly as he _ground_ the super-sensitive tissue. Her tongue fell lewdly out of her mouth and she made a sound more animal than human as cum from his pisshole leaked down her face. That she was having a shameful orgasm from his heavy titfuck was obvious.  
  
“This is all your huge fucking tits are good for!” Duncan grunted, thinking to himself that this was the greatest feeling ever, that if it were to get any better, his dick might just explode from the pleasure! He took pleasure in slapping her tits back and forth, feeling the weight of them, watching them bounce flawlessly and rebound off his shaft, before withdrawing entirely. Sigalda pouted, reaching out to him in an ensorcelled daze as her body glistened with sweat and pre-cum. “Lie back and spread your legs,” Duncan ordered. “Like a good bitch!”  
  
It was an order that, in her state of defeated rut, she was all too happy to obey. Sigalda was lost in a whirlwind of internal fire; as humiliating as the situation was, she needed so desperately to be fucked by that big, young cock, she would do anything! The pose she took up was obscene, laying directly on her back and bringing up her arms and legs like a puppy displaying its belly to an owner, her thighs spread enough to show every detail of her absolutely soaked pussy, the puffy lips of which were completely engorged. She even pursed her lips like a helpless infant - it was a posture more submissive than any Sigalda had ever taken in her life, and she was doing it all for him - a boy who had grown up idolizing and serving her without question!  
  
He fell to his knees and presented his meat, long and hard enough to jut out horizontally from his pubic area, and laid it flat on Sigalda’s belly. He head seemed to reach all the way to her ribcage, and the sight of just how much it might brutalize her was sinful. Yet she showed no fear, and used one hand to hug the shaft to her flesh, looking across it at Duncan and begging the boy to fuck her hard and deep. Her hand could not even encircle the throbbing girth. “Please, Master,” Sigalda moaned. “Ruin my slutty bitch pussy with your huge cock!” A fat wad of semen slid from his pisshole and dripped down between her breasts, and she cooed like a babe, enchanted by the thickness and virility of the mess, taking it between two fingers in a sloppy strands and bringing it to her lips to sample. “Gods, such thick seed!”  
  
Duncan could no longer wait. Drawing his hips back so as to place his tip against her swollen quim, he pushed into Sigalda with all the strength his thin, young shanks could muster, opening her up with his girth, which disappeared inch after inch thanks to how unbelievably wet the princess was. It was heaven. The tightness and heat of her passage was greater than he could have ever imagined, the velvet texture of her insides was everything he could have wished for and more. The sacred place beyond the barrier of Sigalda’s metal bikini bottom had always seemed so untouchable - more untouchable even than the throne of Zwei itself - and now he was inside it, she was crying out, her hands clutching at his back and pulling him against her writhing body. Duncan could only compare the feeling of her muscles tensing and swelling against his flesh to the act of riding across a field on the back of a great charger. Her body _felt_ even better than it looked!  
  
“Oh! Master! Fuck me! I can feel it stretching me!” Sigalda cried. Duncan’s size was reaching the furthest point that any of her rapist’s cocks had penetrated, and easily going beyond, battering her needy womb up into her guts, stretching the diameter of her slick and spasming canal to new limits. And all this sensation from a boy who was barely a man, all elbows and hip bones and feet and shoulders, his limbs yet to fill out, his ribs standing out on his sides. A lowborn through and through, and small enough to fit snugly between her thighs as he _carved_ into her with his tool. She could feel how acutely his shoulder blades protruded from his back as her hands ran over him, could feel his tight hips tensing and driving into her, making her cunt _suck_ his prick, banging his big, smooth balls off inner thighs.  
  
She came instantly, powerfully, wrapping tightly around him, wanting more inches, wanting to take every bit of that cock. It seemed to plow as deeply as Agatha’s strange vines, but was so much _thicker_. “It’s… fucking my body up!” she wailed, biting her lip as an orgasm ripped through her. “My pussy will break!” There was a fleshy noise as Duncan pushed harder and his large cocktip speared past her cervix and into her womb, Sigalda threw her head back and seemed to lose all coordination in her limbs as she cried out with an even more powerful orgasm. Her words became unintelligible, she could not form sentences and only grunted like a beast.  
  
“Huge… cock!” she gurgled. “I want… huge cock!” She gazed down at the space between their two bodies and looked with pride at the fat bulge that Duncan’s monster prick was making beneath her skin as it skewered her. “I want Master’s huge cock to fuck up my pussy!” The infantile talking only spurred Duncan on and made him harder. He instinctively wanted to leave his mark on her and make her his. He wanted to _claim_ her. He leaned forward, his smaller body seeming to surf on hers, and wrapped his hands around her throat, still thrusting.  
  
“Sigalda, you… stupid fucking cumdump!” he moaned, barely remember that he was participating in a farce. The other three guards, all of whom were masturbating to the spectacle of his huge cock penetrating the princess, could have been thousands of miles away. “I’ll put a baby in your belly!” The idea appealed to him greatly - Sigalda by his side, her belly gravid with child, clutching his arm adoringly, her temper restrained by the responsibilities of motherhood.  
  
“Y-yes!” she gurgled, her eyes rolling back in her head and her tongue hanging out. “Let my ruined pig pussy drink your baby seed! Fuck a child into my guts with your huge cock!” The deepest places of her womb, the extra-sensitive tissues that had been turned into erogenous zones by Agatha’s curse, were wrapped around his bloated cum-cannon like a second skin. The way his enormous pipe was scraping her and stretching her and rubbing her was driving her to pleasure beyond any she could have imagined. In that moment, it was crystallized in her mind that Duncan’s cock was the greatest, that his fat prong could make her feel like no other. Even the twitching, fertile oviducts, the passages her eggs would travel down to make a baby, had been twisted to the purposes of pleasure and made into little pussies; his cock was battering into these, his pisshole butting into them and flooding her egg-tubes with hot, gelatinous ropes of extra thick wad that she could feel burning inside her and feeding her need for nasty, lumpy semen!  
  
In that moment she knew she was his. A barely-teen boy who had been her servant, a lowborn boy, was making her his woman. Utterly seducing and conquering her wet pussy with his massive cock. In that moment, she would do anything for him, any submissive, degrading act he desired. She would lick his ass, suck his balls, clean his feet with her tongue. She would be this boy’s wife and bear his children as many times as she wanted, she would utterly submit to a low-born kid and be _his_, for as long as he would allow her. She wouldn’t have felt this way under any other circumstance, for any other boy, or for any other cock. But it was Duncan. Duncan who had always earnestly done his best for her, who had shown bravery in defending her even though she almost never needed it, Duncan whose loyalty had never wavered. Even now, in the midst of their shameful fucking, he was hatching a plan to save her, and those she cared about. Through it all, since before she was Sigalda of the Order of the White Lion, Duncan had always been there. She crossed her arms behind his neck and hugged his face to her chest as she came, the biggest orgasm yet. Her womb, sensitive as her clit, was exploding with pleasure as Duncan stretched and fucked it, that deep place no other cock could reach. “Duncan, I love thee!” she howled, and in the midst of the panting and catcalling and rutting, it was uncertain whether anyone heard.   
  
Duncan also cried out and hilted himself, his balls slapping flush to her sweat-soaked undercarriage and his shaft buried as deep as he could manage, which was nearly to the balls. He was calling her a slut and a whore and a cunt, but that was only half of what he felt. All of his rage and frustration at her was mixed with his most primal emotion. “Sigalda, I love thee!” he cried out, his young voice sounding uncannily old, he could not help himself, for it was the truest thing he had said. She screamed in pleasure all through it, burying it in the cacophony. As his cock-crown distended her womb and pressed it up into her guts, his pisshole dilated and began to pump out hot, nasty ropes of unbelievably thick semen, issue so powerful that Sigalda could feel the stinging impacts of each sloppy, bubbling lance. She was holding him in a deathgrip, and with each splash and spurt of his seed, her belly began to expand with the sheer volume, until heavy splatters of the stuff began to pour back out of the tight seal her pussy made around his root.  
  
“Semen! Semen!” she chanted, almost like a mantra, fixated on how much he was exploding into her, her cursed body creaming and craving every drop! “Seee-mennnn!” Before Duncan was done, a large pile of messy, lumpy semen had slid to rest against her buttocks, below the point of penetration. He’d cum so hard he honestly thought he might blow his skeleton out the end of his dick - the combination of Sigalda’s submission and his decades-long desire for her had been too much to bear. He collapsed onto her larger, more mature body, his sweaty chest pressing against her boobs, his head turned to the side and resting in the crook of her neck, his softening cock still buried deep. The rebel onlookers, having blown their loads at the sight of such sexual excess, were gathering themselves and murmuring about how they’d seen that royal bitch get fucked proper, he paid them no heed. One by one, they collected their clothing and staggered drunkenly back down the hallway, leaving Duncan and Sigalda alone.  
  
When Duncan withdrew, a thick paste of white cream poured from Sigalda’s pussy to add to the mess already on the ground. The amount inside still inside her was far larger, and she looked obscene with her thighs spread and her midsection bulging out, showing a smooth, hemispheric curve instead of her usual collection of robust abdominals. He’d filled her so completely with cum that she already looked eight months pregnant! Sigalda’s eyes were glassy and half-lidded as she stared up at the ceiling, rubbing a hand along her lewd cum-gut, mewling about semen and how she loved being filled with cum.  
  
Hesitantly, Duncan knelt down on one knee next to her and put a hand to her swollen belly, pressing down on it experimentally. “I’ll help you,” he said, and Sigalda instantly moaned as a torrent of cum was forced out of her pussy and leaked to the floor with a humiliating bubbling noise. Even more lewd than the noise, though, was the fact that she was cumming - orgasming from the feeling of his heavy semen sliding against her vaginal walls on the way out! Duncan couldn’t help but smile with satisfaction. He pressed down again, harder this time, and another bubbling, sloppy torrent of semen slopped out of her slit and over her cum-soaked her buttocks and asshole, adding to the pile on the floor. “Nnngh, your thick seed feels so good!” Sigalda moaned, writhing on the floor, her face devoid of all emotion except pleasure. Duncan continued to press on her belly, feeling it gradually shrink, occasionally using his opposite hand to play with the alluring round pea-shape of her half-hooded clitoris, another sacred Sigalda treasure he’d long wanted to plunder.  
  
She was a cum-wallowing orgasmic mess, and only when her belly had shrunk did Duncan leave off, pulling up his britches and moving to sit next to her humiliatingly splayed body. He took a moment to breath and look over at her. Even in the midst of her curse-induced rut she was still beautiful. Some women, he reasoned, were simply too naturally beautiful to ever have that taken away. It had been his ‘first time’, and he thought he had acquitted himself well, considering the insane circumstances. He closed his eyes and leaned back against the dank stone, hearing nothing but his breathing, feeling nothing until Sigalda stirred and let her hand wander up the inside of his thigh, caressing him.  
  
Grinning sheepishly, he dared to ask: “Did you mean what you said? When you said you’d bear my child, and cried out ‘Duncan I- … Uauuugh!” His recitation of her heat-of-the-moment cry was interrupted as her practiced fist crashed into his balls, sending him rolling and clutching his groin. She had not been caressing him at all, but rather taking careful aim, so that her swing would strike true into his scrotum.  
  
“Duncan, you brat!” Sigalda growled, rising to her feet as he clutched his large, but wounded, testicles. “I should murder thee for making me say such things!” Pained as he was, a part of him was relieved. Her eyes were clear, and she seemed as foul-tempered and indignant as ever. That was good. It meant there was hope.  
  
“Be angry all you like, but save the murder for later,” he croaked out, rubbing his nuts, which throbbed from the impact of her fist. “What happened here may seem a respite compared to what’s about to come. Starr means to make an example of you. But I mean to save you,” he finished. “You, Ein, the Queen, and the kingdom.  
  
Sigalda, moved by his words, softened her voice. “How?” she asked.  
  
Having made sure that he was no longer being watched, that no other guards were in the dungeon, he beckoned Sigalda close. “Tell me all you know,” he said, “of Garavant, and the secrets of _Alsansam_.”  
  
He did not ask her if she had meant what she’d said, about loving him.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
On the stout northeastern battlements of Zwei Castle, closest to the rising of the sun, was a circular stone alcove, a larger version of an archer’s vestibule protected from the elements by stone on all sides. Inside this room, the king had kept his birds, and it was Duncan who had tended to them, wiling away many an hour feeding them and cleaning the roost of their droppings and feathers by the narrow light of the arrowslit. The king had told Duncan that as a boy, he had tended to them for his grandfather, and though their work was now performed by human emissaries, he could not bear to see them fall into disuse.  
  
Duncan still tended to them, even after the fall of the castle. The white-feathered birds, calm and gentle, were a beautiful remembrance of Zwei’s past, and the king’s trust in him. Thus, he made the short walk from the throne room to the vestibule every few days to check on them, even in the midst of the rebellion’s madness, and it was there that Starr found him, two days after his fateful encounter with Sigalda.  
  
The rebel general had taken a liking to him. He saw him as a liberated servant boy, a lowborn like himself, and as such had allowed him to observe the conversations that went on in the throne room, conversations about logistics, negotiations with other kingdoms, and putting down a possible counter-insurgency by those still loyal to the crown. Duncan’s sharp and strategic mind, belying his tender age, seemed to impress the man, as did his knowledge of the castle’s inner workings and defenses. Reasoning that they were already conquered, Duncan had given this information freely, to gain Starr’s trust.  
  
But he hadn’t told him about the king’s messenger birds. And when he heard Starr’s voice, suggestive and piqued, the hair on the back of Duncan’s neck prickled.  
  
“You didn’t tell me about this room,” said the general, placing his hand on the door frame and ducking into the vestibule. The door was low, but the alcove itself had a high-enough ceiling to allow an archer to draw and shoot a bow. As a result, there was plenty of space for the wooden roost. Starr walked close and Duncan felt his heart race. The general carried the two daggers of the assassin’s guild in his red sash, the mark of all the upper echelon of the rebel leadership. Duncan had seen what the man could do with them. He had gutted one of his soldiers for disobeying an order just a fortnight before, and let the man bleed out in the royal chamber as an example for others. Duncan was game, and had trained to fight, but he knew he wasn’t Starr’s match. Not yet, anyway. Sigalda could have defeated him one on one, easily even, but she was jailed.  
  
“There is little to tell, Master Starr,” Duncan replied, and instantly regretted it. The sinewy assassin gripped him by the forearm and spun him around, sending pigeon-feathers puffing into the air.  
  
“Don’t take that fucking mewling servant tone with me,” Starr spat. “Are you a fucking man or a bitch?”  
  
“I’m a man,” Duncan protested. It had been a mistake to talk as he would with a noble, but after fourteen years it was natural to him in times of danger. Starr, whatever he was, was no noble.  
  
“Do you want to be a servant?”  
  
“I’m a fucking soldier!” Duncan cried, making eye contact and raising his voice. Trying not to cry or show any fear. Starr’s daggers glinted in his sash.  
  
“And who gave you that fuckin’ chance, boy?”  
  
“You did. I’m free now.”  
  
They made long eye contact, and at last Starr relented and moved a step away as the birds clucked and scratched. “Then account for this omission. ‘Cause I asked the whelp where you might be, and clouted him when he didn’t know, and he finally after much fuckin’ ado said ‘the birds’. Leaving me in quite a state of fuckin’ surprise, given you’d said nothing of such things.”  
  
Duncan looked away. ‘The whelp’ was Prince Ein, who it was Starr’s constant pleasure to humiliate and mistreat - with the king dead, Ein was the last male heir to the throne. Duncan could only imagine what horrors Starr had in store for the delicate blonde boy during the public reckoning he had planned for the royal family.  
  
“These birds are of no consequence,” Duncan said, simply. “Left to die by the old king, I took them under my care.” He could not say they were favored by the king. Starr and his men would have them for roast dinner if they suspected the nobles had any affection for the animals. Yet if he could paint them as lost and ignored, like the rebels saw themselves-  
  
“They’re messenger birds, aren’t they?” Starr asked, running a long-fingered hand down a beam of the roost.  
  
“No-”  
  
It happened in a flash. Starr whirled in a rage, interrupting him, grabbing him by the throat, showing him back against the mesh of the roost, causing the birds to flap and coo with alarm. Feathers puffed up in a plume. _Gods, he’s so fast_, Duncan thought, seeing stars in his vision. _And he means to kill me if he senses I’ve betrayed him._  
  
“Are you sending fuckin’ messages, boy!?” Starr screamed, and Duncan could see the flat, discolored tombstones of his teeth in a yawning chasm. “ARE YOU?”  
  
“No!”  
  
A knife at his throat. Duncan felt a sliver of his own blood slide down his neck and he gulped, closing his eyes. He had to make him believe. “Many generations ago, but no longer!” he choked out. “Just birds now, a comfort to me as I served under the heel of the nobles. Look! You’ll see no parchment, no fucking tubes nor trappings to tie fucking messages to their feet! Even if you had such, they would scratch and peck you shitless as you fastened the message, and would fly heedless of your intent, for such training is ten generations forgotten!”  
  
Duncan felt the blade pull back from his throat… a little. “I wonder about you, boy,” Starr said, cautious but easy, and finally the knife made its way back to his sash with a practiced movement that was almost invisible, so fast it made a _snik_ noise in the air. “You’re a smooth talker. And sharp.” He paused. “I heard you visited the princess.”  
  
“Only doing my assigned duty.”  
  
“And did you fuck her?” Starr asked.  
  
Duncan didn’t let any emotion show on his face. “Yes,” he said.  
  
“And you have quite a fuckin’ device in your trousers, so rumor holds.” His eye seemed to roam over the front of Duncan’s britches with a trace of amusement.  
  
Duncan said nothing, and Starr nodded, as if in approval that a young man’s business was his own. “If I had my way you could fuckin’ rape that blonde bitch to death. But she’s for the witch, boy. This you fuckin’ know. The witch’s price.”  
  
“Yeah,” said Duncan.  
  
Starr smiled. “Would it surprise you to learn that I arranged for you to have that fuckin’ guard detail? And that the men who followed along to interrupt you weren’t as drunk they seemed?”  
  
It did surprise Duncan, a little, but he did not show it in his face. _How crafty he is_, he thought. _Years of operating in the shadows has made him trig as a rat in a nest of serpents. _Yet he kept his gaze steady and showed no alarm. “A wise precaution,” Duncan said. “And what did they report back to you?”  
  
“That you fucked the brown-skinned bitch.” Starr said. “And treated her fuckin’ harshely, showing no hint of conspiracy.” To this, Duncan said nothing, only nodded and waited for Starr to continue, trying to keep his face even. There was a shoe yet to drop in this interrogation, he could sense it. Starr had an assassin’s wiliness, but Duncan had a servant child’s sense of acute danger. He had been avoiding saying the wrong thing, saying too much or too little to a noble, his entire life.  
  
“They also said she cried out, and proclaimed her love for you,” Starr went on. Duncan, with difficulty gave no reaction. So she had, and he had cried the same to her.  
  
“She loves nothing but fuckin’ cock now,” Duncan replied. “Thanks to the sorcery of the witch. And mine is the biggest.” He shrugged, as if to show Starr he thought her term of endearment had meant nothing in the grand scheme of things. Yet in his heart, that couldn’t have been further from the truth.  
  
Starr seemed to scrutinize Duncan, and then his face relaxed into his usual smirk. “I see.”  
  
“And yet you still don’t trust me,” Duncan added. This information was no surprise to either of them.  
  
“The swordsmanship teacher took his own life,” Starr said, walking closer and looking out of the arrowslit and into the grey sky. “Did you know that? But before he did, he told us much of the workings of the castle. Much of you, boy.” Starr looked up. “He said you were close to the royal family, like a brother to the prince.”  
  
“I was a piss-boy,” Duncan recited. “A servant, nothing more. The affection they had for me was no different than their feelings for a dog or a horse.” He had practiced this explanation many times, waiting for the day to come when Starr would confront him. He was, in fact, surprised it hadn’t happened sooner.  
  
“So you say,” said Starr. “But I require additional satisfaction.” And then he snapped his fingers, a stark, dry sound, before the creaking hinges of the vestibule door opened and a small, slender figure was thrown forward onto the stone floor, crumbling into a tangle of limbs. It was Ein. The prince, dressed humiliatingly in a concubine’s silken leggings and lingerie, his face painted white like a jester, his lips painted black, his aquamarine eyes glistening with tears under the cap-and-bell hood pulled tightly over his hair. The bells jingled as he collected himself.  
  
Ein was truly a pathetic sight. He stood on shapely, trembling legs with his small balls and penis forming a modest bulge in the silken thong he was forced to wear. His legs were wrapped in tight, see-through silk, and his girlish hips protruded enough to support a beaded belly-chain. A jewel had been attached to his navel and a silken bra wrapped tightly around his completely flat chest, sheer enough that his puffy nipples poked through the fabric.  
  
“He’s crying,” Starr observed. “Aren’t you going to comfort him, boy?”  
  
_Don’t take the bait._  
  
Duncan didn’t move. “Why should I give a fuck about this worthless, cocksucking faggot?” he said, obstinately, crossing his arms. Ein burst into silent tears, his head hanging. Even painted with humiliating clown makeup, there was no denying the unnatural beauty of his cheekbones and his pert mouth, a fact that made the boy’s transformation into a woman all the more convincing. Tears dug furrows in the makeup as they ran down his cheeks. It looked like a leaf might blow him over, and Duncan realized that Ein was likely exhausted. Starr’s goons kept him up all hours of the night, dancing for their revels, filling their drinks, fetching their swords and armor, or performing whatever acts of humiliation they wished.  
  
He stepped forward. _I’m sorry, Ein_, he thought, and then reached out and grabbed Ein by his cap and bells. They were both nearly the same age - fourteen - but physically they were different. Duncan, while still lithe, was showing hints of wide shoulders and athleticism in his trim body, while the prince had no such hints. Everything about him seemed soft, meek, and beautiful. He pulled Ein’s face toward him.  
  
“Open your mouth, faggot,” he growled, doing his best to imitate the most foul-mouthed of Starr’s compatriots.  
  
“D-Duncan, please! N-not thee!” Ein wept, and lest the boy break down and convince Starr of their bond to one another, Duncan shook him roughly.  
  
“Open!” he said sharply, and Ein made a miserable noise and obeyed, arms at his slender sides as if afraid to be struck, parting his moist, black-painted lips. Duncan had a mental flash of Sigalda’s face as she had parted her lips to service his cock, and realized that Ein, dolled-up like a jester girl, had many of her features. Drawing as much spit into his mouth as he could, he pulled Ein’s head back, forcing his face upward, and let his foamy expectorate pour out over the smaller boy’s nose, mouth, and lips. As Ein made a gagging sound, Duncan shoved him roughly to the floor, and then looked furiously at Starr.  
  
“You expect tenderness from me for this royal piglet?” he said to Starr, gesturing down at Ein, who was a pathetic sight. The completely sheer silken leggings were tight to his skin, and his small balls and dick formed a bulge in the front of the thong beneath. His narrow chest was rising and falling with silent sobs. Duncan hardened his heart. Having come so far, he couldn’t allow even the slightest suspicion on Starr’s part. He placed the bottom of his boot on Ein’s tiny cock and applied a bit of downward pressure. “The prince always was a faggot only good for taking cock in the ass. It was his fuckin’ favorite thing to treat me as a servant, I and the others, to clean and sew and do whatever he was indisposed to attempt.” This was a lie, but one Duncan thought Starr would want to believe. He held out his hand to general, whose eyes were gleaming with obvious interest. “Give me a dagger and I’ll slit his veal throat right now.”  
  
Ein’s eyes went wide with fear. Duncan did not allow his face to tell what was in his mind - that this bluff was crucial, that the prince was too valuable as a propaganda tool for Starr to let him die now, but he had to make Starr think he was willing to do it. “D-Duncan, no!” Ein moaned. “Please!”  
  
“He knows your name,” Starr said, smirking, fingering the hilt of one of his daggers.  
  
“Aye, he fuckin’ knows it,” Duncan said, gravely. “From yelling ‘Duncan, bring my soup. Duncan, wash my tunic. Duncan, cut my bread.’” He punctuated each order by grinding his foot on Ein’s balls, not with too much force, but enough to induce a moan. It was also a lie - Ein had never really ordered him around, and in fact, had seemed to relish having an ‘older brother’, though they were both nearly the same age - but Duncan knew that such an interaction was what Starr expected.  
  
_And if he gives me a dagger and asks me to cut Ein’s throat, as I’ve promised, what will I do?_ Duncan asked himself. He had no answer. His gamble was that Starr would forego such a display and be content with the offer. And he _had_ to be right. The room was silent except for Ein’s whimpering, and Duncan thought that if Starr didn’t do something soon, he was going to go crazy - torturing Ein like this was too much, he couldn’t bear it any more. Mercifully, he didn’t have to. Starr’s body seemed to relax, his hand withdrew from his sash and daggers, and he nodded to Duncan, offering a ghastly smile of reassurance.  
  
“He must live yet a while longer,” Starr said, walking toward the door. Duncan hoped he would leave and never come back. “In a week, the royal family shall be punished in the castle square. The image of the Zwei royals will be destroyed in the eyes of the public, and their bloodline forever tainted. No more fuckin’ dukes and counts and barons. A fuckin’ goodbye to the age of kings.” He opened the portal and looked back. “You’ll have a front row seat, my boy. And you’ll have your chance to show your sweet prince the full fuckin’ size of your vengeance.”  
  
He stepped out, closing the door behind him. Birds clucked and fluttered as the sound of the ancient hinges faded. Duncan dared not move. Even with Ein writhing on the ground, he let himself stand for ten seconds, twenty. He waited until he heard Starr’s footsteps echoing on the stone outside, a safe distance away. Only then did he drop to one knee and reach down to cradle Ein’s head. “Ein!” he said, earnestly. The delicate boy was crying, and Duncan felt himself crying as well. “It was just a ruse!”  
  
Ein, still with spit drying on his makeup-caked face, blinked away tears with long eyelashes. “I know,” he said, simply, and Duncan’s eyes went wide with realization. He had played it totally cold toward the prince since the capture of the castle.  
  
“You knew?”  
  
“Yes,” Ein choked out. “Whatever must be done to me, Duncan, if it’s you, it’s alright. As long as it’s you.”  
  
Duncan found himself speechless, and then leaned down to kiss Ein’s forehead. “How brave you are,” he whispered. “How brave you are, Ein.” He hugged the blonde boy’s bell-jangling headdress to his chest, and then pulled a hand back, unfurling his clenched first to show Ein an item he had palmed as soon as he heard the door open to permit Starr’s entry - the parchment tube of a messenger bird. “I’ll save you,” he promised. “And Sigalda too.”  
  
  


* * *

HEARE YE  
HEARE YE

ON THE DAY OF REAPING MOON

A PUBLIC SPEKTACLE SHALL OCCUR

THE ROYALS OF ZWEI SHALL BE PUNNISHED

FOR THEIR GODLESS CRYMES AGAINST

THE PEOPLE OF THE REALME!  
BY DECREE OF STARR, LIBERATOR

OF ZWEI AND MAN OF THE PEOPEL

QUEEN CORDELIA SHALL WED A HORSE

WITH A PENIS OF SURPASSING SYZE!

THE WHITE MURDERESS, SIGALDA

TO BE RAYPED BY A THOUSAND MEN

UNTIL OF BROKEN MINDE, AND

THEN GIVEN TO THE MONSTORS

OF GARAVANT SORCERY FOR

FORNICATION UNTO DEATH

THE LASTE MALE HEIR OF THE ROYLS

PRINCE EIN ALSO TO BE BUGGERED

AND THEN CASTRAYTED  
AN END TO THE BLOOD LINE

OF TYRANTE’S ROOL

A FEASTE AND REVEL TO

CELEBRATE A NEW AYGE!

* * *

  
  
  
On the morning of the Reaping Moon, a holiday meant to celebrate the harvest, Sigalda was placed under heavy guard and taken from her dank cell to join her mother and brother for a shameful naked crawl from the inner gate to the palace square. The majestic grounds of Zwei castle had been opened up to every ruffian and brute who wished to cast a leering eye on their fate.   
  
Starr had made sure that the most virulent anti-noble agitators, those who had lost comrades to the blade of Sigalda’s _Alsansam_, were front and center - brutish men who would gladly stoop to any sexual degradation if it meant seeing her brought low. These men, with the cocks hanging out of their britches and their deviant minds fortified with mead, were prominent in the crowd during the first stages of the walk, lining the streets two and three deep, already on the verge of rioting. To stir their libidos, noble girls and women who had been passed around among the occupation force were thrown naked into the streets, where they were forced to suck and fuck for their lives. Some of these were Sigalda’s fellow knights of the Order of the White Lion, reduced to prostitutes who presented their tits and asses to be groped by leering men. Each was given the instruction to service as many as they could, with the alternative being the death of their sisters; they thus went about their task with weeping, sad-faced desperation that only served to make the cocks of the sadist rebels even harder.  
  
The procession emerged from the front gate with a dozen armored guards at the forefront, two of their number holding stout chains that attached to a collar around the neck of Queen Cordelia, who crawled pathetically in a sick travesty of a wedding dress, in that it was slit high on the sides and low-cut in the front, such that her massive breasts wobbled and bounced below her horizontal torso like cows’ udders. Her long, blonde hair fell about her shoulders, and her eyes were glassy, filmed-over with the mindlessness and defeat that her long ordeal had inflicted upon her will. She seemed child-like, drugged, utterly uncomprehending of her own humiliation, and disgustingly eager to marry her new ‘husband’.  
  
As she was dragged along, a chorus of derisive calls rang out from the assembled crowd, for they hated the queen nearly as much as Sigalda. Though she hadn’t killed them in battle, she was a symbol of the decadence of the nobility, and the upper-class fascination with what the beautiful Queen Cordelia wore, where she dined, and what sort of decor she favored seemed disconnected from their squalid lives. The guard holding her leash led her first to one side of the stone path and then the other, making her crawl within arm’s reach from her former ‘subjects’, and absorb every cruel word and bit of abuse they wanted to dish out. They spat on her, hurled clods of dirt and rotten fruit that splattered onto her dress, and even jerked their erect dicks until hot ropes of semen slopped into her hair. They called her a ‘cunt’, ‘bitch, and ‘slut’, free to use such epithets without fear of reprisals.  
  
Though the procession had to travel perhaps 200 feet to the outer gate, it was slow going, for the guards led the deposed Queen to each side of the crowd to allow them to torment her. One bulky miscreant had brought his young sons, and the guards yanked Cordelia’s collar up to bring her to kneel in front of these boys, who barely came up to their father’s waist. Despite the presence of this progeny he was still exhibiting his cock, at full hardness, stroking it in the queen’s glassy-eyed face while giving his children a lesson in class warfare.  
  
“For years you fuckin’ filled your sow belly while me and mine were starving,” he growled. “And at least you’re called to atone for it.” He reached forward and tore at the front of her wedding gown, dragging it down to expose Cordelia’s massive breasts, huge, pumpkin-sized globes that hung with heavy fullness on either side of her slender chest. “Take a look at those things, boys!” he growled, and the two wide-eyed, brown-haired young lads did exactly that, reaching forward with a child’s precociousness to sink their small hands into the abundant titflesh, their fingers almost disappearing while fat droplets of milk began to form at the tips of Cordelia’s heavy, large-pored nipples. As the boys squeezed, the milk began to slide down each fleshy orb in thick lines.  
  
“She really is like a fuckin’ cow, dad!” they marvelled, two wild-haired boys with dirt-smudged hands and piercing blue eyes, short enough to barely come up to her chin even as she knelt.  
  
“Drink your fill, lads!” someone yelled. “It’ll be the first time this stupid bitch ever did a thing to feed the poor!” There was general laughter, and the crowd swelled near Cordelia’s location as the masturbating onlookers sought to watch the spectacle as two boys gripped Cordelia’s tits tight and pulled them lewdly outward, bringing them to their young mouths and starting to suck, taking deep, intimate pulls and obviously taking in huge amounts of milk that leaked from between their lips and down their dirty cheeks.  
  
“That’s right, feed my kids, bitch!” he grunted, before spewing rope after nasty rope of thick, jelly-like semen all over Cordelia’s face, painting it with vertical lines of goop that hung with gelatinous weight from her eyelashes, lips, and nose. She barely reacted, kneeling with hands at her sides, taking every bit of the rebel sympathizer’s load while the two brats slurped the hot milk from her nipples. She barely even blinked her half-lidded, filmy eyes when semen splashed into them.  
  
“A queen must… take care of her subjects,” she moaned, brainlessly, and then a furious-looking mother with a washer-woman’s bandana stepped forward and smushed a rotten gourd into her face, obscuring it with mushy husk and dark brown juice, and she could no longer talk.  
  
“Royal whore!” wailed the assailant. “I should raise up my fuckin’ skirts and piss on you from the loins that bore the child you kept hungry with your taxes!” There were other cries, and the queen was pelted with offal, wet clumps of vegetable matter that clung to her shapely body even as the two boys sucked powerfully at her breasts. Her face was completely obscured by the rotten gourd husk, and men and women alike, their faces streaked with dirt and their clothes a hundred variations of patched over, leathery earth tones, spat on her and hurled curses. The men jerked their dicks with her long, blonde hair. The crowd at that side of the path was growing unruly, and the guards actually had to force them back with their pike hafts, lest they tear Cordelia limb from limb. As the two boys disengaged from her breasts, her shamefully erect nipples seemed to throb they dripped fat rivulets of thick milk onto the street.  
  
“I drank all I could, dad, but there’s still more!” the rightmost twin boy exclaimed, his face the picture of youthful mischief, and he reached out with his hands and gripped her breast, squeezing, compacting the marshmallow softness and forcing hot streams of milk to erupt onto the street as Cordelia moaned. The gourd husk slid off of her face with wet ‘plop!’ sound, revealing features soiled with sour orange muck, her eyes blank as she mindlessly tried to calm her ‘subjects’ in a grotesque imitation of her former royal position.  
  
“So much bounty, and yet she still employed a wet nurse for her own fuckin’ children!” wailed a woman, and spit in Cordelia’s face. This accusation was true - it was utterly gauche for a noblewoman to feed her own child at her breast when there were lowborn wetnurses available, and indeed, many female servants at the castle had been made to see the nursing of Prince Ein as something of an honor, as if letting a noble boy drink from her tits was the highest office to which any common woman could aspire. Now, however the tables were turned. Queen Cordelia’s nipples were unbelievably large and sensitive, part of the reason she employed a wet nurse had simply been that the touch of a pair of lips to her breast was shamefully orgasmic. Indeed, she was panting like a whore after having her tits attended to by the duo of young boys.  
  
“From now on our kids’ll suck your fat tits dry every day!” wailed another woman, bringing her own viciously blonde son forward. His eyes were like ice, and though he didn’t even come up to his mother’s waist, he was fearless in stepping forward in apply his lips to Cordelia’s puffy, leaking nipple. Meanwhile, his mother mashed a soggy head of rotten lettuce onto the top of the queen’s head. “Feed my son, bitch! Let him drink until his belly is full, for all you denied us these fuckin’ many years!” There were cheers as the lad pressed his face into her soft titflesh and sucked intensely, swallowing gouts of milk while more dripped down his chin, his hands struggling to carry the weight of her mammary as he pressed his face and chest into the mass of breastmeat that seemed the size of a Fair Day pumpkin.  
  
The crowd was still unruly, and the guardsmen (many sporting obvious erections in their codpieces) dragged Cordelia from place to place for fifteen minutes or more, both sides of the aisle. Any son or daughter of the rebellion was invited to suckle at the queen’s chest, and she moaned in garbage-covered, depraved helplessness as dozens of children sucked the thick milk from her ducts, the liquid so rich it rubbed and abraded her sensitive pores on the way out, driving her to unspeakable heights of rut. This didn’t go unnoticed by the gathered crowd, who called her a slut and a whore, promising to spread rumor far and wide that Queen Cordelia Zwei IX was nothing but a milk tank for lowborn kids to suck out, a whore whose pussy got wet at the oral attentions of lowborn boys and girls.  
  
“Gods, they’ll tear her apart!” a guardsman cried over the din, shoving back against the tide of unwashed humanity. “Starr’ll string us up by our fuckin’ dicks if she’s brought to harm before she reaches the castle square!” And so they shoved and tugged her around, striking a medium between protecting the queen and allowing the throng to molest her as they wished, moving slowly forward at a rate of a dozen feet every minute. Every rabble-rousing insurgent got their chance to spit on Cordelia’s face and pelt her with refuse, and though some men presented their turgid tools and tried to penetrate her, the guards prevented this, barking the same rebuke, that by order of the general, her maidenhead was to be preserved for her ‘new husband’. These men contented themselves by unloading on her tits, or on the dress-wrapped, round bulge of her thick ass.  
  
Duncan observed all this from the gatehouse crossway above the portcullis separating the pathway from the castle square. He wore the red sash of the rebellion, hooking his thumb into it. As he had continued to prove himself, Starr had placed more and more trust in him, and now he was to look on the sordid festivities as something of a lieutenant. It was grotesquely ironic, he reasoned, that the conquering rebel commander put more confidence in him than the royal family ever had, in terms of station.  
  
“It’ll be fuckin’ good to watch her crawl through the muck and filth, like an animal at the menagerie,” Starr commented, putting a hand on Duncan’s shoulder. The boy’s wild brown hair was tied back by a headband, making him look even more the revolutionary. The rebels had erected a stable pen in the castle square, which was to be Cordelia’s new home. She would live the rest of her days, Starr had decreed, as a horse’s wife, getting raped and pissed on by the animal, and paraded in front of the commonfolk naked and slathered in cum and filth. Though Cordelia had always been rather cold toward Duncan, perhaps because of the late king’s affection for him, the boy still couldn’t imagine seeing the once-immaculate Queen of Zwei reduced to such a fate.  
  
Of course, others were in for just as gruesome an end. As Cordelia crawled mindlessly around the muddy path, getting spit and pelted with trash by the throng, the next member of the royal family, Ein, was led from the palace doors by two guards. The young prince was dressed with the affectation of a harem prostitute, wearing lingerie and a silken shawl and veil in a rather striking pink. His blonde hair had been cleaned and feathered into girlish, neck-length sprawl. Golden wristbands and anklets, and naval jewelry added to the impression of a bejeweled concubine, and through the translucent shawl, his girlish hips were wrapped in a pair of tight panties that showed every detail of his cutely modest cock bulge and round, sinfully feminine boy-butt. His eyelashes, teased out with makeup, shrouded eyes that were downturned with numb despair. HIs lips, glitter-painted and pert, were shut tight.  
  
The crowd exploded at once, hurling every insult in the book at the humiliated young prince, and volleys of offal and garbage flew through the air and pelted his slender body, even as the guards forced him to mince forward at spear-point. “Swing your hips, faggot!” ordered the rearguard, and Ein uttered a pathetic sob as he started wiggling his rear with each step, giving each leering hatemonger a full view of his tight, panty-clad butt with the enticing motion of his hips. Embarrassingly, such motions seemed to come effortlessly to him. It was impossible to hear over the torrent of verbal abuse being sent his way, as the revel crowd surged inward against the pikes of the guards and called Ein a faggot, a cock-sucking piece of shit, and told him he was only fit to take hard dicks in his ass.  
  
“Look, he’s crying like a bitch!” one of the men cries, and there was brutal laughter as the assembled crowd took the utmost pleasure in Ein’s discomfort. Tears carved through the makeup on his face and left black channels down his slender cheeks, making him look like an even sluttier prostitute than before. “If I had that faggot’s ass to pound, I’d leave my wife in a second!” More laughter.  
  
“Do a dance!” came a voice, and enthusiastic voices of assent followed. “Sing _‘Glory To Zwei, White Flower Of The West’_!” Ein’s face immediately blushed and became grave, and he stammered a refusal, cutely squinting his eyes shut against the howling mob. It was no use. The crowd hated the royal family, hated him, and by extension, hated ‘White Flower Of The West’, a favored tune of the aristocracy that the peasants had been forced to learn to celebrate holidays and occasions important to the nobility but that they themselves didn’t give a shit about.  
  
Ein clenched his eyes shut and blushed so deeply that it was visible through his vail. Though he had been hesitant to walk forward at first, it now seemed preferable to indulging the crude requests of the mob lining the road. There were dozens, hundreds of rebels on the street and hanging from the balconies that had once been occupied by the landowners on parade days, and it seemed like every one of them was calling the delicate boy a bitch and a faggot, and saying lewd things about how his round ass looked in his risque outfit. Yet when he tried to continue to the portcullis (where his mother was on all hours, her breasts hanging nearly to the ground, being pelted with garbage), he was stopped by the spearpoint of one of his jailors.  
  
“I want to see that dance, boy,” said the gap-toothed rogue, licking a livery tongue over his lips. “Let ‘em hear your voice!”  
  
Ein whimpered as the point if the pike pressed against his throat, and then started to pathetically wiggle his hips, shaking his butt in a lewd and humiliating imitation of a dancing girl’s licentious twirl, while his effeminate, high voice began to sing.  
  
_White flower of our fatherland,_  
_Fight with thy defenders!_  
_Victory under the flag of Zwei_  
_Our enemies shall expire!_  
  
“Defend this, you fucking cocksucking little faggot!” game a gutteral yell, and a rotten tomato sailed past Ein’s head as he continued to sing pathetically with tears running down his cheeks.  
Yet he continued to gyrate his small body and wiggle beneath his silken clothes.  
  
“He barely has any muscle at all!” called out an onlooker. “His body is like that of a budding girl!”  
  
“I wonder how much fat servant cock he had pounded up his sissy-boy shitter every day at court?” wonder another, and there were gales of laughter. Like his mother, Ein was pelted with rotten fruit and garbage as he danced and humiliated himself for the enraged masses. One tired-eyed blonde mother catcalled from the front row.  
  
“Tear his girlclothes off!” she crowed. “Show us his shame!” Her suggestion was met with enthusiastic approval by the crowd as the guards approached to do just that, easily overpowering him, as they stood nearly a foot and a half taller and outweighed Ein by perhaps 100 pounds each. Each clutching one of the prince’s smooth and slender biceps, they hooked their fingers into his panties and yanked them down while he wailed in protest, breaking off his song. The crowd pointed and howled with laughter as Ein’s penis was revealed - a cute, pink, circumcised twig that, not being hard, was about the size of a man’s pinky finger.  
  
  
“Ha! This is the male heir of the Zwei bloodline?!” crowed a swarthy man who was letting his own prodigious, hairy dick hang out for all to see. “He’s of age to rule yet hasn’t even grown a bit of hair on his pecker!”  
  
“My five-year-old son has a larger cock!” cried a rather bawdy woman, and she bid the knee-biting brat, who was close at hand, drop his britches to prove it. Amazingly, the boast was true, as the dirt-smudged urchin sported an uncircumcised meat that dangled down with greater thickness and length than Ein’s. All the crown prince could do was hang his head in shame at his inability to surpass even the youngest lowborn children in size. The rebel youngsters, amused by this, lines up and dropped their britches one after another, displaying cocks of varying size that were, without exception, larger than Ein’s penis. Despite being almost ten years younger than him in some cases, they joined their parents in calling him a bitch and a fag.  
  
For Ein, it was the culmination of two months of torturous existence. He’d been forced to dress as a dancing girl and entertain Starr’s ruffian council by dancing and kicking his heels up like a strumpet, enduring their constant remarks about what a sissy faggot he was and how they’d happily bugger has ass, not to mention the roaming hands of the usually-drunk captains who saw him as little more than another rape target in a long line of them. Yet unlike the female knights of the Order of the White Lion, who were kept as sex slaves, he was spared that fate; though forced to give lap-dances to fat, mead-stinking rebels and endure their roaming hands tweaking his nipples and pinching his shapely, smooth bottom, Starr had decreed that none should defile him until the day of the Reaping Moon.  
  
“That day, in front of the many thousands of his former subjects, his cute little faggot ass-pussy will be ripped apart,” Starr had said, much to Ein’s wide-eyed alarm. “But not until then.” So for weeks he’d been made to fetch drinks, sing songs, and wiggle his hips in highly sexual dances. He had not known what to expect when he was dressed in his least masculine outfit yet and paraded from the castle gate, but despite his efforts to gird himself against his fate, the young prince was not prepared for the tide of absolute hatred that was being spewed his way, and for the first time, the full divide been the nobles and the low-born was revealed to him. His parents had largely kept him sheltered from such things, and whatever stories he’d heard of rebellion and strife, he usually got from Duncan (who, in turn, was clouted by Sigalda for embellishing). As he was pelted with fruit and garbage and his ears assailed with a thousand curses against his manhood (or lack thereof), Ein could see in the eyes of every vengeful rebel a deep-seeded hatred for him and his kind. Enough hatred to do murder. Murder, and worse. For a delicate boy who hadn’t ever wished to harm anyone, it was difficult to bear.  
  
“I’m sorry my son is such a fag,” came a soft voice, and Ein realized it was his mother, who had been led on her leash to his side, her heavy tits still dripping milk and her body, tattered wedding dress and all, crusted with rotten fruit peelings, spit, and semen. She was using the low speech, as she’d learned to do the last two months. Starr had made a point to slap and abuse her when she dared utter the noble tongue.  
  
“M-Mother!?” Ein stammered, and then nearly choked with alarm as his mother pressed a hand against his pelvis, the other against his lower back. Her eyes were utterly blank, her mind gone, and what remained, lost in a fantasy in which it was her duty to ‘please’ her subjects by any means necessary. “P-please, don’t-”  
  
“Suck your faggot son’s tiny dick!” a man in the crowd roared. “Slurp on his pathetic cock, you big-titted bitch!” The crowd roared assent to this plan, and the guards near the portcullis pushed back as hundreds surged to surround the two.  
  
“Of course,” Cordelia said, her green eyes blank as a filmed-over mire. Mindlessly, she parted her lips, taking Ein’s entire cock in her mouth with ease and sucking lewdly as the boy squinted his eyes desperately shut against the sensation. The crowd, who had long told bawdy tavern jokes about the inbreeding and disgrace of the royal family, were now being treated to proof. The queen, sucking the prince’s dick, in front of more than a hundred onlookers.  
  
“M-mother, please!” Ein moaned, his knees trembling, but Cordelia didn’t stop in her attentions, extending her cheeks to suck his thin, hairless root with a lewd vacuum blowjob, lost in the act of disgracing herself.  
  
“I’m sorry, he can’t seem to get hard,” she said, breaking the connection between them and, amazingly, seeming to actually apologize to the crowing rebel crowd. “He’s too much of a fag.” She used her hands to encourage his thin body to bend over, then, and then dug her fingers into the supple, round, perfect cheeks of his young ass, spreading them so every rebel present could see his pink and inviting asshole. “Please, whichever among you has the biggest penis, please rip apart my son’s tight ass-pussy!”  
  
Ein’s eyes goggled as he seemed to gaze down over his own shoulder at his mother lewdly spreading his cute butt for the assembled masses. He would never have realized she even knew such crude language, and her utter dereliction of motherly duty caused fresh tears to well in his large and expressive blue eyes. Starr, who with Duncan was watching from the gatehouse platform, tossed back his head and laughed. “Look at those royal pigs,” he said with satisfaction. “She once protected her unworthy son at the expense of every commoner. Now, she spreads his ass to receive their fuckin’ cocks!”  
  
“It’s as you said,” Duncan replied, arms crossed. He knew the queen’s mind was already beyond saving. Perhaps, if his plan worked, she could be restored, brought back from the despair that bedeviled her. Until then, though - she was just a willing cog in Starr’s degrading machine, using her once untouchable body as a sex tool, craving the destruction of herself and her family line, with no dignity or restraint.  
  
“This stupid cunt would trade her son’s cherry asshole for a good fuck!” someone crowed.  
  
“Yes, I would!” Cordelia moaned, kissing one of Ein’s supple, round asscheeks lewdly and spreading him open more, showing the enticing, puffy pinkness of his rear hole, the soft curve of his perineum, his small balls and cute little dick. Every man present couldn’t deny that the boy’s shapely butt was at least as enticing as the queen’s quim, if not more. Men brandished their hard cocks and tried to push forward, their eyes hynotized by hot damsel-dressed sissy assflesh, and Starr’s men came together to shove them back. For a moment, it seemed like the throng of would-be buggerers would overcome them, but Ein was rescued by the arrival of the final, and most anticipated, member of the royal family.  
  
Sigalda.  
  
She was blindfolded and led out on a leash, crawling like a hog, totally naked. Her large breasts bounced and wobbled as the motions of her athletic ass propelled her forward along the road. On one side of her walked Agatha Wormwood, hobbling in her wretched way, leaning on her knobbed and twisted staff. On the opposite side, two guardsmen carried the greatsword _Alsamsam_, holding it out with ceremonial reverence.  
  
There was an immediate howl of outrage from the crowd, and Ein and the Queen herself were almost immediately forgotten.  
  
“Murderess!”  
“Butcher!”  
“Put her to death!”  
  
Many of them surged forward as if intended to do just that, and the stout line of pike-wielding guardsman was battered inward by the sheer sweet of humanity. Starr had hand-picked the families that would be allowed to line the castle path, and he had chosen well - every one of them had an intense hatred for Sigalda. They were the poorest, most intensely anti-noble families, those who had participated in the rebellion and lost sons and brothers to her blade. Several pulled hidden blades and made an attempt to rush and stab her, starting a brawl with the guards. Scarcely a word could be heard over the riot, and what could be detected was full of rage - men howling that they would rape her, beat her, that they would rip her skull from her shoulders and piss into her dead eye sockets.  
  
During it all, Agatha was laughing, her head tossed back, her mostly-toothless mouth wide with gales of mirth. The ugliness in people was something she always enjoyed, and though she gave not one single solitary shit about Starr or his rebellion, seeing the evil in their souls was satisfying. After she’d gained Alsansam’s power, she decided, she might stay in Zwei a while, and see what atrocities the new government had in store for the remains of the nobility.  
  
“Your subjects love ye so much, Princess!” she cackled, and bid the guards continue to haul her forward. Her curse, the incubus venom, had been at work in Sigalda’s body for a month or more, and there was no way the brown-skinned beauty could resist. Her pussy was perpetually wet and aching for cock, and she could tolerate no food except what she could suck out of men’s pricks. For two fortnights, she’d had nothing to nourish her but the cum and piss of her guardsmen, and for sixteen hours each day she was made to beg for their hard, unwashed cocks and service their grotesque desires. Yet, these indignities would be nothing compared to what would finally break her and deliver the key to Alsansam’s power into Agatha’s hands.  
  
Sigalda was being spit on, and whatever remaining bushels of rotten lettuce and tomatoes were remaining were showered upon her. Those who had no rotten fruit hurled muck from the gutters. Several men who attempted to rush in and shank her were actually killed in the attempt - so mad in their desire for revenge that the very sight of her athletic, crawling body was enough to drive them to murder.  
  
“You killed my big brother, bitch!” a young boy cried, and splatted a handful of rotten squash directly into Sigalda’s forehead. Her platinum hair was streaked with the pastel stains of all manner of pulp. She did not react, only crawled pathetically forward as her guardsman led her, her face pathetically flushed, her pussy leaking clear fluid down the insides of both of her thighs. She was obviously turned on, regardless of any ill-treatment, a bitch in heat.  
  
Duncan looked for any hint of Sigalda’s original defiant personality, and was dismayed to see none. In the week since his fateful visit to her cell, she’d suffered greatly indeed. He wondered if she could last long enough to deny Agatha Alsansam’s power. If his calculations were right, his plan would require at least another twenty-four hours, perhaps as many as forty-eight. Could she last that long? Was she already too far gone? He couldn’t tell.  
  
“Concerned for her?” Starr said, and Duncan realized he was being watched intently, and quickly shook his head.  
  
“It will be my pleasure to rape her,” he replied, hoping he sounded convincing. Starr clicked his tongue and shook his head.  
  
“You have other business,” the older man assured him, rubbing a thumb over the hilt of one of his daggers. “As you well know.” He bid the gatesmen raise the portcullis as the three members of the royal family - Sigalda, Ein, and Queen Cordelia - approached it. They were a miserable sight. The Queen leaking milk like a cow and begging for big rebel cocks to defile her children. Ein dancing and wiggling his ass like a strumpet and crying like a little bitch. And Sigalda, in heat, little better than a dog. Duncan closed his eyes.  
  
_Twenty-four hours. Gods, I just need a little time-_  
  
Before he could think any further, the portcullis went up, and Queen Cordelia, Ein, and Sigalda were ushered out into the castle square. The brutal disgrace of the Royal Family of Zwei was about to begin.


	4. Episode 4, Part 1 (Subbed)

The roar that rose up as Ein, Cordelia, and Sigalda were escorted through the front gates was unlike anything Duncan had ever heard. There had been hundreds of hand-chosen sympathizers lining the road from the inner gate to the outer wall, and these had been vicious, but outside of the battlements, in what was sometimes known as the Main Square, there were _thousands_. Where once had been market stalls selling goat and venison, fruit, trinkets and tools, there was a throng of humanity pushing in against guards who maintained a small, clear area - the presentation area. This was where the gallows were placed when the most brutal criminals were executed. Today there was no scaffold, but rather a series of three rope enclosures.  
  
The leftmost, containing the massive white stallion Thunderbolt and trappings taken from the royal hostlers, was meant for Queen Cordelia, who would consummate her sham marriage to an animal by fucking the beast in full view of her subjects. The middle contained a raised wooden stage, previously used for minstrelsy and theatre, upon which Starr and his lieutenants would watch the show, keeping Prince Ein close at hand. And on the right, the largest area, was the only area that would allow the rabble and onlookers to actively participate in the degradation of the royal family. This was for Princess Sigalda alone, a large circular area with waist-high wooden sideboards haphazardly strewn around it, giving it the appearance of a rustic gladiatorial ring. When the time came, guards would usher in any man or boy in all of Zwei who wished to fuck the previously untouchable Princess Knight, and let them do as they wished to her well-primed, athletic young body. Blindfolded and subjected for weeks to the devious aphrodisiac sorcery of the hag Agatha Wormwood, she would be unable to resist cumming at the attentions of even the most unworthy suitors.  
  
Poor, trembling Prince Ein, still dressed in his dancer’s silks, was let at spearpoint to stand next to Starr on stage. His slight figure and head-shorter height made the contrast between the rebel leader and the captive prince all the more stark for the thousands of curious onlookers, a mix of horny, drunken louts and regular city folk who had come out of pure self-interest. Whatever events unfolded in the square, they knew, it was likely to be a turning point in the history of Zwei, pertinent to their lives going forward. Many were curious to see not only the royal family (who had been rumored dead in the wake of the rebellion) but the face of Starr, the man who had led the coup. Rumor had painted him as seven feet tall and handsome, the harbinger of a new age of equality, and though they were disappointed to find him rather normal-sized, yellow-toothed, and of middle age, none could deny he had pulled off his insurrection with brass balls.  
  
Queen Cordelia was led by burly guards to her place in the horse pen, her daring and lewd “wedding dress” already torn and stained by the rabble. Her massive breasts bounced and wobbled as she moved, her face blank and milky-eyed. Because of her despair at the recent death of the king, she had been susceptible to Agatha Wormwood’s mind-bending sorceries, and now seemed unable to recognize friend from foe or truth from illusion. The onlookers were wide-eyed as she broke into a smile at the sight of her husband to be, an enormous white stallion, 21 hands high, with an equally enormous cock hanging past his hocks, mottled pink and deep leathery brown. Grotesquely, a female member of the Church of Zwei, red-faced and ashamed, was present to officiate the ceremony. Her head hung down beneath blonde hair as she clutched a sacred text against her abdomen.  
  
Ein, trembling in his silky bra and panties, was led to the edge of the stage and forced to watch as his mother was escorted to her bestial mate. He was not the only one with fond memories of her - the boys and girls of the kingdom had long-marveled at Cordelia’s beauty, and her choice of hairstyle and fashion had for many years dictated what would be in vogue with the upper crust, which in turn informed the decisions of the peasantry. Not to mention, her unsurpassed figure, with wide hips, huge breasts, and an hourglass waist, was seen as the epitome of what a woman should be. The clergywoman peeped as she was prodded with a spear, her cheeks going rosier than ever. She wore a modified version of a cleric’s robe, slit up the side to show her shapely thighs, and taken in so as to be sheer. On top of her head she wore a miter bearing the cruciform symbol of the Church of Zwei. Once a revered institution, it would now be responsible for officiating a sick farce.  
  
“T-today marks the occasion of the wedding of Queen Cordelia Zwei and… Thunderbolt the horse,” the female bishop announced, projecting her voice lest she receive another spear poke. “The matrimony shall be… consummated in this very spot, and… blessed by the Church of Zwei as… God’s will.” She looked down with shame as Cordelia was shoved toward the horse, stumbling briefly but bracing herself against the animal’s massive side. Thunderbolt snuffled indifferently; since being put out to stud he’d become accustomed to being tended to, not to mention constant fucking. He was sire to most of the great warhorses of the Knights of the White Lion, and his offspring in particular were known to have amazing stamina, able to ride from dawn to dusk and carry barding and armored men that would break the backs of most mounts. He was a massive animal, barrel-bellied and long through the middle, with powerful shanks and haunches that were corded with thick muscle. Next to him, Cordelia seemed tiny. The crowd on edge - they knew the queen could be trampled in a second, if that’s what Thunderbolt had in mind - and the size difference lend a particular lewdness to the already foul proceedings. Her body was thick in breast and thigh but graceful otherwise, it was unthinkable to imagine their queen coupling with a beast, and yet, the even seemed to be at hand.  
  
“Oh, my wonderful husband!” Cordelia moaned, and the lustful blankness in her eyes alarmed and inflamed the audience. She walked to Thunderbolt’s head and reached up with two hands to pull the beast’s head down, standing on tiptoe as she did it, her tattered slit-side wedding dressing showing off her big, bubble-shaped butt and the lewd white thong beneath. Her breasts were already exposed, hanging from her torn dress like udders, and her hair glistened in a sheaf down her back, catching the sun and looking as blonde as could be. Thunderbolt easily could have resisted her pull - could, indeed, have lifted her off the ground without an effort - but rather seemed to allow her lustful attentions, and the crown groaned out in disgust as the beautiful Queen Cordelia pressed her lips against the horse’s rubbery ones began to wetly and loudly make out with the beast. Her eyes were rapt with lust as flecks of horse-spittle splattered all over her regal face.  
  
“Gods, she’s making out with a fuckin’ horse!” a man catcalled, among other expressions of disgust. “The royals really are deviant! And the Church is goin’ along with it.” The number of men stroking their dicks was equalled only by the number of astounded, wide-eyed women and girls who were dumbstruck, seeing the former icon of grace and beauty utterly degrade herself.  
  
Cordelia lewdly thrust he rear out and ran a hand over one of her massive tits, rubbing her protruding nipple as she let the licentious beast slobber all over her face. “Nnnngh! I love your smelly horse-breath, my beautiful husband!” she cooed, submissively. “I’ll suck on your tongue all you like!” She began to fellate and gag on Thunderbolt’s long, swollen oral muscle, mixing her own gagging spit with the bubbly, frothy expectorate of the beast and letting it drip down her chin. A series of _gllrrrk_, _sllrk, ngggh_ noises emanated from her overtaxed lips as she worshiped and sucked, drawing a river of hot horse-drool down her throat and into her belly and glazing her face. The way her neck was bulging, it was obvious that Thunderbolt’s long, textured, bumpy tongue was drilling deep into her throat and feeding her meal of horse-spit. After a moment, she pulled off and gasped, spit-bubbles sliding down the corners of her mouth.  
  
“Nnngh, it tastes so bad!” she moaned, sliding a hand under her dress and rubbing a palm against the puffy lips of her thong-wrapped pussy. “But it’s a woman’s duty to serve her husband! Mmm, let me clean out your beautiful muzzle!” She extended her tongue and shoved it straight up one of Thunderbolt’s nostrils, rimming around the orifice and drawing in curds of lumpy white goo as she fingered herself. “Gods, you have so much thick snot! You need a good wife to take care of you!” Her eyes were crystal balls from which all hope of prophecy had departed. Whatever dignity she had once possessed was being washed away in front of thousands of her former subjects, who were clamoring to see every lewd detail.  
  
“Mommy, why is Queen Cordelia doing that to the horsie?” a young girl asked, only to have her eyes covered by her mother, who was glowering at the display with utter disgust.  
  
“She’s nothing but a big-titted horse slut!” a man in the crowd cried out. “I heard the rumor but I never imagined it was true! She probably lets the whole cavalry nurse on those fat milk bags!”  
  
After a minute or more of licking Thunderbolt’s snout, Cordelia at last dropped into a squat that accentuated her wide ass, her cheeks bulging out around the white thong she’d been made to wear, the front and rear panels of her dress dragging in the straw and mud. The stallion’s monsterous, rubbery fuck-pillar had descended from it’s sheath, still mostly flaccid but showing signs of life in twitches and throbs. The shaft was mix of pink and dark brown, glistening with a haze of sweat droplets, longer and thicker by far than one of the deposed queen’s graceful arms. Beneath the base, a pair of full, leathery testicles hung with scrotum-stretching weight, each the size of her head. She reached forward to touch the shaft with two hands, rubbing it reverently, her worshipfulness utterly obscene, a royal squatting beneath a huge stallion and fondling its cock and balls.  
  
“Per the orders of the new government, Cordelia’s new horse husband has not been washed in several weeks,” announced the female bishop, blushing deeply and struggling to keep her voice from cracking. “As part of this holy ceremony, blessed by God, she must service him with her mouth.” She was barely maintaining her composure, forced on pain of death, and death for her fellow clergy, to officiate the farce as Starr wished.  
  
Cordelia had adopted a spread-thighed pose, balancing on her balls of her feet, and marveled at the length and size of Thunderbolt’s cock as she held it out in front of her like a huge snake, balancing it on her two wrists, the shaft actually drooping in the middle under its own ponderous weight. The medial ring seemed as big around as her neck, and her nostrils flared as the scent of dried cum and piss floated up from the shaft, making every breath a reeking miasma. Her eyes rolled back in her head as she inhaled, moving her face closer to the sweaty shaft. “Nnngh! There’s so much cock cheese!” she mewled, and lowered her regal, thin nose to press against the shaft and take a big snort, vacuuming up as much sweat, musk, and smegma as she could, leaving her upper lip smeared with an undignified weal of yellowish-grey gunk. “It fucking _stinks_!” her eyelids fluttered and she seemed almost to lose her balance, but she regained it. “My husband’s cock smells like _shit_ but I want to suck it so badly!” Her face was one of utter submission and unconditional service as she addressed the horse. “Don’t worry, honey! I’ll take care of you!”  
  
She was absolutely enraptured by the size and musk of Thunderbolt’s huge penis, and set to work immediately running her tongue along the increasingly hard length, seeming to savor every bump and ridge, lingering in areas that were of particular tactile allure, like the bumpy, spongy flange and it’s smegma-loaded underside, and the large pisshole that was already leaking a syrupy river of hot horse semen. The only part of her body that was suitable to the task of taking on such a monster organ was her famously prodigious chest, and so she hefted her fleshy tits, forming a channel for the massive prong as she faced it down head on, rubbing her breasts on either side while she adoringly kissed and sucked at the brutal beast dick that had become her entire preoccupation.  
  
Prince Ein watched with forlorn exhaustion as his mother, the queen, titfucked and sucked the huge horse penis. He’d been through such a wringer of abuse that his reaction was rather muted; this was compounded by the fact that his mother had been distant ever since the passing of the king, his father. It all seemed to be happening in a dream, or to someone else. But when Starr planted a boot on his ripe, round, teenage boy-butt and give him a boot, he uttered a surprised peep and tottered on the edge of the stage before Duncan yanked him back by the nape.  
  
“What do you fuckin’ think, prince?” Starr taunted. “The symbol of peace and prosperity, the reigning queen of this shithole, is sucking horse dick like a stupid fuckin’ whore! She’s talking the low speech like she was born in the fuckin’ slums, and she barely needed any of the witch’s convincing. Your mother is a real natural, big-titted cocksucker! Does that make you jealous, you little faggot?” Duncan winced but said nothing. He could not show any concern this early in the game, and poor Ein would have worse to withstand before the day was out. They would all be tested, and their wills proved, for good or ill.  
  
Ein didn’t cry or react, but his shoulders slumped as he watched his mother’s beautiful blonde hair sway and cascade over her back and down her shoulders while she hungrily licked the sweat from Thunderbolt’s huge ballsack. “There’s so much cum in these huge balls!” she moaned to the crowd, obviously turned on by the idea. Her eyes still had that strange, hypnotized quality, as if viewed through muddy water that reflected only half of the sky. She presented her tits again and began to give a wet, hot titjob to Thunderbolt’s sack. “Mmm, I’ll suck your balls clean every day! They fucking stink so bad! It’s amazing!” Indeed, the more unwashed the horse’s body, the more the disgraced queen seemed to enjoy it. She alternately mopped the fat nutsack with her huge breasts and leaned in to bury her nose in the depression between Thunderbolt’s testicles to take a deep inhale of the horse’s overpowering dick stench. The sloshing, cum-choked balls were so filthy that small flies were buzzing around, but that only excited Cordelia all the more. She licked up and down each fat nut with a whore’s eagerness, slathering her face in hot ball sweat, pursing her lips and taking big, lewd sucks of gathered scrotal flesh.  
  
“The Queen is a ball-sniffing piece of shit!” someone cried. “I always said it about those royals - all sorts of fuckin’ deviant stuff went on behind those castle walls!”  
  
The bishop, who by now was barely able to refrain from crying out of sheer disgrace, continued her pronouncements as she motioned for a gaggle of young, chaste clergy girls to step into place with bouquets of flowers, each more shamefaced and blushing than the last. The church had been as much a target for the rebellion as the royal family, and these young, pretty nuns had all recently had their first sexual experiences with the drunken, horny louts of the rebel army. Their first _hundred_ sexual experiences. Now, dressed in slit-side nun habits with keyhole cleavage windows cut into the front, they were pressed into service to participate in a wedding ceremony that was unlike any seen before in Zwei. “Q-Queen Cordelia will now… kiss her husband-to-be,” she called out, raising her voice to overcome the din of catcalling, masturbating males and utterly disgusted townsfolk. “The Kiss of Royal Oath shall show her… obedience in all things.” Her holy book no longer seemed comfortable in her hands, and she fumbled it into the dirt.  
  
“The Kiss of Royal Oath!” Cordelia exclaimed, and a hint of recognition and nostalgia seemed to come to her face. Her breasts were covered in pre-cum and her own spit, not to mention the musky ball-grease from the horse’s unwashed sack. “Oh, finally I can seal my bond to my husband!” She rose to her feet and walked behind the stallion, planting to hands on the beast’s massively muscled rump and pulling brushing Thunderbolt’s large, swishing tail out of the way. Her face was just inches from the biggest, puffiest horse asshole anyone had ever seen, deep brown, swollen, and dripping with sweat that trickled down over the beast’s taint. She leaned in until her nose was nearly touching the orifice, took a deep sniff, and her eyelids fluttered. “Mmm, he hasn’t been washed in so long! The stink is so bad it’s like my nose is being raped!” she exclaimed, yet she pressed her face further in despite the thick haze of horse-musk, drinking in every bit of her equine beau’s powerful essence. Her nipples were obviously erect and her own wetness was dripping down her explosive, pale thighs, glistening in the sun. “Watch, everyone! I’ll be such a good wife!”  
  
Her hands caressed Thunderbolt’s gleaming white shanks as she buried her face into the horse’s ass, any remnant of respect of grace she might have once had was snuffed out in an instant as her former subjects watched her give a deep, intimate kiss to the beast’s sweaty, swollen turd ring.  
  
“This shit-eating whore is really shoving her tongue in there!” cried one of her many detractors, fisting his swarthy penis at the utter depravity of what he was seeing. “This proves it! The royal family were nothing but deviants! Instead of helping the poor and struggling of her realm, she was too busy engaging in fuckin’ depravities with farm animals!” There was a cry of outrage and agreement, and though the accusation wasn’t true, it was rooted in truth - for even with her wits about her, Queen Cordelia had been mostly indifferent toward the plight of the laborers and farmers in her lands. Now, with this shameful display as a focal point, these same long-suffering laborers were having all of their negative beliefs about her vindicated.  
  
“That’s it, suck that horse ass! Make your husband’s dick nice and hard for you to fuck!” catcalled another man, and Cordelia seemed to hear him, pressing her face into the stallion’s donut-shaped asshole and sealing her mouth lewdly over the beast’s pipe, loving the taste and musk of Thunderbolt’s greasy bowel walls. His tail swished around above her head as stood placidly, reacting only with the increasing hardness of his enormous stallion cock. Cordelia made sure to smear every bit of musky sweat from his rim all over her face, slathering her own spit on the asshole to make it shine. She even stuck her nose directly up against the beast’s shitter and took a deep, animalistic snort of the musky ass-grease from his tunnel. The air filled with her obscene slurping and lip smacking noises as she pleasured her husband-to-be without regard for her own dignity.  
  
“By the grace of God,” the bishop announced forlornly, “I pronounce you… husband and wife.” The shamefaced flower girls in their tattered nun habits threw white flowers in the air, their faces blank and haunted. A sarcastic cheer went up from some in the crowd. But the greatest response was disgust at how the once-revered icon of royal grace and beauty was utterly degrading herself. “You may now… consummate the marriage.”  
  
Cordelia squealed with delight as a large bale of hay was brought front and center, as well as a breeding stand for Thunderbolt to throw his prodigious forelegs over. That her own son and daughter were about to be humiliated as well was nowhere on her face or in her mind - she was concerned only with satisfying her new horse husband, and eagerly lay on her back on the bundled straw, spreading her legs to either side and massaging her huge tits. Because of Thunderbolt’s size it was rather a high hay bale, she had to boost herself up upon it, and her feet dangled above the floor. For the first time the stallion showed some excitement, sensing a mare in heat and preparing to do the breeding dance he’d performed so admirably for so many years in the care of the royal stablemaster. Cordelia turned her head sideways to address the crowd as Thunderbolt reared up and balanced on the breeding bar, bunching her slit-skirt about her waist and showing off every detail of her thick thighs, her huge breasts piled in twin mounds atop her chest and wobbling, her knees pulled back and her dainty feet twitching in their long stockings.  
  
“Please, watch as my wonderful horse husband destroys my pussy with his huge, smelly cock!” she begged. “It’s a queen’s duty to provide for her people and comfort them, man, woman, child, or animal!” The audience clamored around as Thunderbolt’s enormous cock flange, the outside ridge comprised of textured, bead-like bumps, slid and prodded at the deposed queen’s royal pussy. Her white panties had been torn and slid down one leg like a garter, exposing her fully, showing how wet and and slick she was in anticipation of the foul coupling that would soon take place. Her patch of pubic hair, blonde as the hair on her head, was matted with her own juices and Thunderbolt’s copious pre-cum.  
  
“It’ll never fit!” cried an onlooker. “That horse’s dick is the size of her leg!” The crowd devolved into conversation about Cordelia’s likely prospects, and she looked out at her horny subjects with something like indulgence. Her mind had been twisted with a strange sort of sorcery, amplifying her feelings of guilt for the neglect of the lower classes that she, on some level, saw as complicity in the rebellion, and twisting those feelings into something sexual. In her mind, such a nasty act of animal comfort would be her penance for those tens of thousands of subjects who had been displaced or agitated by her rule in the wake of the king’s death.  
  
Thunderbolt, not one to take ‘no’ for an answer when it came to having his enormous fuckmeat buried in a mare’s pussy, foamed and snuffled loudly as he repositioned himself on the breeding bar and began to thrust his hips. Since his cock was so large, he at first only succeeded in bumping Cordelia backward on the hay bale, but with the direction of the guards, six of the humiliated clergywomen knelt on either side of the queen and threw leather straps over her body at waist and breastbone, securing her tightly. Her breasts bulged massively the criss-crossing leather, and they completed the makeshift restraint by pinning Cordelia’s thick thighs back against either side of her chest, leaving her pussy absolutely exposed and spread.  
  
“Yes, hold me in place!” Cordelia encouraged, her eyes crazed with lust. “Give this union the blessing of the gods… nnnnrrrrgghhhhh!”  
  
There was a fleshy stretching sound as Thunderbolt tensed his muscled shanks and thrust forward, sending his enormous cock, multiple feet long, deep into Queen Cordelia’s exposed pussy. The shape of his prong immediately appeared in her distended belly, stretching like a skin-wrapped fence post all the way up between her breasts. There were screams and shouts of astonishment from the crowd, who were pressing in every closer to see the grisly details of Cordelia’s defilement. The area between her legs was utterly dominated by the penetration of a girthy horse-shaft that seemed as thick as a tree trunk, stretching her labia into a big, wet, inflamed circle that seemed on the verge of tearing at any moment. Hot lube and horse cum bubbled out of this tight seal and over her buttocks and Thunderbolt’s balls in dripping, splattery gouts with every grinding thrust. Though little could be heard over the din, many fascinated onlookers imagined they could hear the grisly sound of tendons stretching and internal organs being rearranged as the beast’s massive cock dug and scraped at the queen’s insides. She had been a graceful monarch, prior to the troubles, famed for her beauty, elegance and gracious manners. Those who dared to imagine sex with her focused mostly on her famous breasts and ass, but never suspected she would ever be subject to any depraved thrusting the likes of which they conceived when stroking their horny dicks to mental images of her. She was too regal, too cultured to ever partake. Yet now, the queen was having her pussy absolutely core-fucked by the biggest, stinkiest horse cock that anyone had ever seen, and the beasts huge, cum-stuffed balls were banging off her asshole and buttocks with each womb-crushing thrust!  
  
Cordelia was almost instantly overwhelmed by the physical domination and penetration, her limbs twitching and splayed, her eyes rolled back, her tongue hanging out and laying on the side of her pert lips. Her womb and guts were being forcefully pounded up into her ribcage by the animal, her entire body was nothing but a second skin for the rampaging horse cock. Her midsection bulged into a cock shape with each thrust, and it was such an extreme distension that even the particular shape of Thunderbolt’s flanged cockhead could be perfectly seen. At regular intervals, she would retch and spit up gouts of saliva as the contents of her belly were forced out of her mouth from the intensity and size of the penetration. Thunderbolt’s huge, bumpy cock flange was completely stuffed into her womb, stretching it and defiling it completely, turning her most life-giving, sacred area into nothing more than a hot, clinging dick sleeve. She clutched her belly and the huge, tubular bulge there like a discomforted glutton who had eaten far more than her fill, moaning loudly with each stroke and adding to the lewd assortment of sounds as the horse’s cock stretched her guts and his balls bounced off her round, full buttocks.  
  
_WHAP! FLOP. WHAP! FLOP._  
  
The sounds came over and over again, never losing speed or potency, for Thunderbolt was a powerful stallion and not apt to tire. From the wooden stage, Starr looked out at the spectacle with satisfaction. The reputation of the royal family was being destroyed, people would never again look at the queen the same way. Even those who had respected her beauty would have to admit that she was nothing more than a horse-raped piece of shit, a slut who loved taking the biggest, nastiest horse dicks deep in her womb. He had already decided that no royal sympathizer would make it through the day with their views intact. At the following noonday, every peasant in Zwei would be a rebel, and all of the upper and middle classes too. Nobody could possibly support a queen who was a horse-fucker, nor a young prince who was a dickless, castrated fag and a princess knight who had given up her sword and sacred duty to be raped by literally every man in the kingdom.  
  
“Look at their faces, boy,” Starr said to Duncan, his eyes not leaving the spectacle of Cordelia’s ‘marriage’. “The fuckin’ crowd of sheep that grew up worshipping the goddamned queen and her big tits and long blonde hair, are all watchin’ her get done to like a hog-whore.” He smiled bitterly. “The myth of royal fuckin’ dignity is all coming down. You ought to be happiest, given you were in her household and doing her fuckin’ bidding.”  
  
“I won’t be doing her bidding anymore,” Duncan said simply, watching the older man closely. Starr was wearing his sash, two daggers tucked close, but no matter how Duncan might scheme to make a grab for one and stab him, he knew from experience that the rebel leader was lethally quick to the trigger. The time he’d spent copying Sigalda in secret, learning her moves by peeking around courtyard corners, Starr had spent out in the real world, slitting throats.  
  
“I guess not. But you still have your part to play in our little demonstration.” Starr smacked Ein on the ass, drawing a squeal from the slight-framed boy. “Still eager to slit this veal’s throat?”  
  
Duncan shot Ein a glance and kept his face blank. “Yes,” he said. His throat was very dry. It was hard to keep from croaking out the words, but he managed.  
  
“Then you will. But first, the people need to see the truth about their precious heir to the throne.” Starr laughed. “The only male heir to the throne of Zwei.” He grabbed Ein by the nape and stepped to the edge of the wooden stage, his presence at the forefront causing a gathering of onlookers. At first, Duncan thought he might simply pitch the boy into the crowd headfirst, but he only brought him to the precipice and held him there for everyone to see - a blonde, effeminate boy with the hips and rear of a budding girl, dressed in dancer’s silks, a bra and panties that drew attention to his cute, puffy pink nipples and the modest bulge of his small cock. Even squirming in Starr’s grasp, Duncan noted, Ein couldn’t help but cut a pathetically cute figure, as if being manly and defiant was beyond him. His fear had only made his cheeks rosier, his mistreatment by the guards had only plumped his lips with bruising, making him look more like a concubine.  
  
Starr cried out from the stage, holding Ein up by the hair, making him stand on tiptoes, like a hunting trophy. “Behold the Prince of Zwei! This fuckin’ fairy has lived in luxury while your own sons, boys and men infinitely more worthy, have sacrificed and toiled!” There was a chorus of boos, and Duncan looked down and saw real contempt on the muddy faces of the poor, faces that looked not unlike his own. It was true that Ein had afforded every chance at glory and a good life despite being unsuited to certain tasks, such as fighting, and the salt of the earth types could sense it just by looking at him. On the rare occasions that Ein was glimpsed outside the caste walls, it was usually astride an expensive horse and wearing expensive nobleman's clothes. The people knew nothing of his good nature and innocence, only his privilege.   
  
“Rape that faggot!” cried out a peasant, a woman this time. “Let there be an end to nobles and kings! Let the strongest rule! Rape him and cut his cock off!” Ein’s reaction to these requests was as expected, as tears gathered in his eyes and he tried not to cry, holding his thighs together girlishly while the curve of his penis hung with embarrassing modesty in his panties. “The working class are more worthy than any noble!” the woman continued. “Our sons should be kings!”  
  
Duncan stood stoically, trying his best to look disinterested and impassive, but it was difficult. With the queen being fucked by a horse perhaps thirty yards away, and the square filled with a throng of humanity, Starr’s madcap ceremony was getting into full swing, and Ein was to bear the next wave of the masses’ aggression. All through the crowd, Duncan saw faces smoldering with resentment and hate, and as he considered this, Starr’s hand fell on his shoulder.  
  
“It’s time, boy,” the rebel general confided. “I can think of no better way to cast off the burden of the fuckin’ ruling class, than to have the prince’s own servant bugger him with a tool more impressive than any a royal could ever hope to have.” He flashed a yellow-toothed smile. “Now produce your iron, boy. Give them a good show, and you’ll have earned your fuckin’ sash and daggers. I’m in need of good men to form a government. I’ll make you spymaster.” He threw Ein to the ground in front of Duncan, and the prince moaned in pain, his high voice distressed.  
  
There was just one problem. Duncan’s gifted young cock was completely flaccid.   
  
It hung, fat and lifeless, against the inside of his leg. After a moment’s hesitation, he unbuttoned the fly of his simple soldier’s britches, producing his long, smooth tool - an amazing size, four times as long as Ein’s and far thicker, the same healthy brown complexion as his skin, which was darker than the prince’s.  
  
“What’s the matter?” Starr asked. “I’d have bet a brace of gold that you’d be ready to do the fuckin’ deed, boy.” He gestured toward Ein. “By your own telling, this one kept his thumb on you all these fuckin’ years. Yet neither vengeance on him, nor the queen’s humiliation has you interested.”  
  
Duncan tried not to show his complete alarm. _Not this way_, he thought. _My plan has a dozen long shots factored in, so many things I had to get just right, but to have it fail like this, to lose his trust and have the kingdom fall because I wasn’t able to get hard - I can’t let it happen._  
  
He willed himself to get hard, squinted his eyes shut and thought of his time with Sigalda, the object of his affection for so many years, and their encounter together in the jail cell - the way she’d looked in her submission, and the way her tone of voice had been soft and accepting… for a little while, anyway.  
  
_Duncan, thy cock! ‘Tis so big!_  
  
But the memory of her voice seemed muted, and with the din around him and the sordid circumstances, it had little immediate effect. His time with Sigalda had been mind-blowing, true, but it now seemed far away, and he was surrounded by people who would be happy to rape and gut his friends without a second thought. He could sense the wheels turning in Starr’s head. He’d managed to keep the older man off of his scent for weeks, but now Duncan knew he was putting it together, considering the idea that Duncan wasn’t as gleeful and sadistic as the rest of his men when it came to Zwei’s fall. They were all killers, rapists and boors, and up and down the line of Starr’s closest lieutenants there wasn’t a one of them who wouldn’t get rock hard at Sigalda’s impending disgrace, the queen’s ongoing horse-rape, and Ein’s shapely, female-like ass in his tight dancing girl underwear. In the proceeding weeks they were quick to take part however they could, keen to discuss the various ways they would fuck and humiliate Sigalda, before making their way to the dungeons to do just that. Duncan had kept his head down and avoided these conversations, mostly. When the time came to put on an act, he took part. But now-  
  
“I wonder about you, boy,” Starr said, intently. “If maybe you aren’t as thirsty as the rest of us, for vengeance. If maybe you don’t have the stomach for it.” He leaned in closer and narrowed his brow. “Or could it be something else. Maybe the old weapon master’s tale was true. Maybe you have an affection for these royal pigs, more than you’ve said.”  
  
He spoke quickly and hoped his voice was even. “It’s just sooner than I expected, that’s all. With my size… it takes time.” It was something to say, but his cock wasn’t getting any harder. The stress of wondering if his plan would work, the suffering of people he considered family, it was combining to make it impossible for him to ‘get going’. He tried to imagine Sigalda, naked, begging him for a hard fuck, but every time the image swam and was replaced by Starr’s ever-skeptical face. And if he failed here, he would lose Starr’s trust. His plan would be in shambles, and they would bring in others to humiliate Ein. Others who wouldn’t hesitate to kill the boy when the time came.  
  
He concentrated, shut his eyes, thought of tits and ass and pussy. He thought of peeking into Sigalda’s room and seeing her in her nightclothes, all of that caramel skin bouncing around under a thin veneer of translucent white silk. He thought of all the times he had peeked at her as she bathed, or dressed. One minute of flaccidity became two. Two became three. The crowd was getting restless, and Starr doubly so. It wasn’t happening. The lewd moans of Queen Cordelia’s horse-fucking, far from driving him to hardness, only exacerbated his disgust. He could _play_ the part of a killer or a sadist, and had mentally prepared himself to play this part as well. But the truth was, he was not a killer, not a sadist or a rapist. He was different from Starr and his cadre, and that was about to become clear.  
  
_It’s not working. I’m done for._  
  
But just as Duncan was sure Starr was about to order him offstage and under guard, he felt a hot head of short hair press against his palm, hands wrap around his leg, and a face nuzzle against the fat shaft of his cock. When he looked down, he saw Ein, wide-eyed, looking up at him with a pleading expression. Then, amazingly, the young prince lowered his mouth to Duncan’s large cocktip and started to submissively kiss and suck on it, tears still in his large, expressive blue eyes, his puffy nipples tenting out the flat cups of his bra, and his round bubble butt curving enticingly out behind the smooth curve of his back. His mouth extended out in a blowjob sleeve as she unabashedly went to work sucking Duncan’s big dicktip like a nursing baby, and even though Duncan presumed the prince had never done such a thing in his young life, Ein took to the task like a professional.  
  
Speechless, Duncan kept eye contact with Ein, and the thinner, less athletic boy grabbed Duncan’s hand and placed it in his blonde hair instantly, encouraging him to take a handful. His eyes narrowed fiercely as he continued sucking with his soft, wet mouth. The message was clear.  
  
_You have to do it, Duncan. Everyone has sacrificed too much for the plan to fail now. For you, me, and Sigalda too, you have to do it. And… it’s alright if it’s you, Duncan. So do what you have to do to fool that man._  
  
“Ein!” Duncan exclaimed, and Ein bobbed his soft mouth further down Duncan’s shaft, taking four inches or more between his pert lips. Duncan bit his lip with pleasure and felt his cock hardening amazingly fast. An instant boner like that in a cock his size was a rare occurrence, but the slutty, insistent, submissive way that his longtime friend and brother was sucking his cock made him feel things he’d never expected. He gasped and then stammered out a few words: “Ein… you… you… fucking fag!” His hands clutched at Ein’s feathery blonde hair desperately as he enjoyed the sucking sensation in spite of his reservations.  
  
The feeling inside him was one of deep catharsis. He and Ein had grown up together, he the lowborn servant and Ein the highborn; his ruddy, healthy skin had the complexion of a servant and Ein’s the pale flawlessness of an aristocrat. Sigalda, who effortlessly bossed everyone around anyway, had made both of them her squires, and they had learned all they could in the process of helping her. Yet while Duncan took to his swordsmanship and horsemanship training like a duck to water, Ein was hopeless with it, no matter how earnestly he tried. Duncan was more worthy a knight prospect than Ein would ever be, yet he was forbidden from joining the Knights of the White Lion because of his birth.  
  
So many times, he’d consoled Ein, who started crying easily at the most minor injuries, and often fled the training field if he were being chased by a wasp. Ein always gave him affectionate hugs during these times. Yet no matter how many times Ein showed that he was useless with a sword, he was given chance after chance. Meanwhile, Duncan was clouted for even the smallest mistakes and treated harshly by Sigalda, who nagged him about the fact that he was even training in the first place when he wasn’t allowed to become a knight. He hadn’t really resented Ein - the blonde boy was just being pulled along in a tide of destiny that wasn’t under either of their control - but at the same time, he had never received any acknowledgement, from anyone, for his own skills and efforts.  
  
Ein was always the one they cared about, just because of his birth status. Duncan hated the crowd’s viciousness, but he did understand it. Ein was smaller, weaker, worse with a sword, worse with strategy, worse in the stirrup. He was the supposed sire of the future royal family, yet his cock was tiny compared to Duncan’s. _But_ he was the prince, and Duncan a servant, whose dreams would forever be dreams. That, Duncan realized, was the essence of the rebellion, Starr’s craziness aside. There were probably thousands of boys like him who wanted to be more than drovers and fishers and tanners. They wanted to be knights and landowners too.  
  
_Do what you have to do to fool that man._  
  
“Nnngh! Fuck, Ein, suck my dick you fucking faggot!” Duncan hissed, squinting his eyes shut and burying his hands in the boy’s soft blonde hair. It was unbelievably satisfying to finally let loose and call Ein a faggot, the low-speech slur that had been on the tip of his tongue for many years when it came to his rather effeminate “brother”. Ein’s petite stature and penchant for wearing nobleman’s tights and dress-like tunics had only made him look more and more like a girl as the years went by. Not to mention his many girlish qualities such as long eyelashes, plump lips, rosy cheeks, and slender limbs. Looking down at him now as Ein tried to swallow the first six inches of his girthy prick, he was struck by how much the prince’s face resembled Sigalda’s. In fact, because of his pale skin, it was actually fairer than Sigalda’s grumpy tomboy face. And down behind Ein’s head he could see the lean, streamlined torso - as graceful as any teenage girl’s - that led to the boy’s embarrassingly round, girlish rear.  
  
“Your throat is as tight as your sister’s!” Duncan moaned, and, telling himself that Starr was watching, justified a series of light slaps to Ein’s cheeks and chin, controlling his head, humiliating him. Yet Ein only kept sucking with those lewd hollowed-out cheeks and wide, earnest eyes that seemed unbelievably hungry for cock. He pressed his hips forward and his heavy cockhead began to burrow down Ein’s throat, causing spittle to drip down the boy’s chin and splatter his swollen nipples and flat chest. Then he withdrew, letting his meat bounce in the air, harshly erect and trailing fat ropes of saliva to Ein’s gasping mouth. Gritting his teeth, Duncan began to give the prince a harsh cock-beating, slapping Ein in the cheeks, nose, and mouth with his sturdy meat.  
  
“You like that, don’t you, fag?” he taunted, and Ein’s face blushed deep red as he cast his eyes down and nodded weakly. They were both in it together, caught in a sordid web of truth. Just a minute of Ein sucking cutely on his cock had been enough to make Duncan hard as a diamond, capitalizing on feelings he hadn’t known were inside him. But the same could be said of Ein as well. Duncan kicked out his boot and brushed dismissively against the crotch of the young prince’s panties, drawing attention to the fact that the boy’s small penis was rock hard. “Your little clit is sticking straight up. You love sucking dick, don’t you?”  
  
Ein shuddered and nodded again, hanging his head, breathing hard, his narrow chest rising and falling as his nipples poked into the bra cups of his dancing girl outfit. Duncan paintbrushed his face with some more hard cockslaps. The crowd was going wild at the display, for like mating with like was a taboo among them, that the prince would so readily take to servicing a cock with his mouth was proof to their eyes that all manner of twisted buggery and deviant behavior had been going on with the royal family. A gale of lewd remarks blew up at the stage, calling Ein a cock-sucker and a faggot, along with lamentations that the male heir to the throne was a complete bitch who loved getting fucked right in his round, soft bubble butt. The revelation that Ein loved cock was a major victory for them, fitting in with the rebellion’s theme of the superiority of the working classes.  
  
“Suck my balls, fag!” Duncan sneered, being as disrespectful as possible, knowing Starr was watching. Ein exhaled once and then leaned in, throwing himself into their sordid pantomime with enthusiasm that couldn’t have been entirely an act, pressing his face into Duncan’s nuts and sniffing, sucking, and licking the large orbs while making adorable squeaking noises. Between his legs, his leaking bitch-cock had formed a wet stain in the pale emerald silk of his panties. “Yeah, you fucking love that, don’t you? I guess we can forget about the royal family lasting another generation. The only thing you’ll ever get pregnant is some other fag’s asshole, isn’t that right?”  
  
“Y-yes!” Ein moaned, sniffing and sucking Duncan’s balls like a little piggy, and Starr threw his head back and laughed, serving as vindication for them both. Duncan raised a knee and shoved Ein backward with his foot, dropping the lithe, struggling blonde boy onto his back, leaving him spread-thighed with his cute ballsack forming an obvious shape beneath his undergarment.  
  
“Say it,” Duncan ordered, pressing his bootheel into Ein’s tender balls. “Tell everyone what you are, and do it in the low tongue. None of that royal shit. Show them all you know the words!”  
  
“I’m… I’m a faggot who likes to suck big dicks!” Ein whimpered, tears welling in his eyes.  
  
“Any servant boy would make a better prince than you, isn’t that right?”  
  
“Y-yes!”  
  
“You’re pathetic! What the fuck is wrong with you anyway? You’re at the age where you should be becoming a man, but you look like a girl! Your ass is as round and tight as your sister’s, did you know that? You have the hips of a dancing whore! You suck cock like you’ve been doing it for years! Look at you! Your tiny little fag-dick is rock hard!”  
  
Ein squinted his eyes shut and blushed a deep red as Duncan rubbed his balls with his boot sole. A moment later, Duncan stepped forward, straddling Ein and letting his cock hang above the blonde boy’s face, drawing his attention at once as he fisted the turgid length. “Want some cum, fag?” Duncan taunted, and their eyes met again. Years of memories passed between them. Meals. Chores. Lessons. Duncan bringing meals, Ein thanking him, and giving some portion over in secret to the boy he considered his brother. Duncan comforting Ein after a skinned knee. For so many years, Duncan had been both friend and servant. Knowing that it was the point of no return, knowing the relationship between them was changed forever, Ein swallowed nervously and nodded. There was a thirst in his eyes that told no hint of a lie.  
  
“Y-yes!” Ein croaked, his face flushed with shame.  
  
“Then open your faggy mouth-pussy!” Duncan jeered, and began to jerk off furiously above Ein’s face, struggling to point his rock-hard pipe downward far enough to avoid blowing a huge nut straight into the crowd, rather than Ein’s wet, inviting mouth. Everyone on stage was watching intently, most of them feeling a bit inadequate at the sight of Duncan’s huge, young penis, but paying attention nonetheless, sickened and titillated by the prince being so utterly humiliated. They had anticipated a brutal ass-rape; nobody realized they were going to see the complete sissification of the little bitch. But there Ein was, opening his mouth, eyelids opening and closing lazily beneath thick lashes, blue eyes shining up, almost begging for it as he lay on the stage with his thighs spread and his smooth ballsack making a bulge in his silks that looked uncannily like a fat set of labia.  
  
“Drink my cum, Ein!” Duncan grunted, and his face reddened as he shuddered with an orgasm, more easily reached than he thought, his pump primed by Ein’s slutty faggotry, the cock-sucking and ball-sniffing and girlish looks. A huge, hot worm of semen exploded from his dicktip and poured into Ein’s mouth, coating his tongue and drawing a hot moan; caught in the moment, Ein made a hungry, satisfied, craving noise and opened his mouth even wider as his feminine face was plastered by squirt after squirt of goo. After seven or eight shots, his cheeks were bulging with Duncan’s issue, his face a degraded mask of white.  
  
Ein took a deep, pregnant swallow, clearing his mouth, and lay there trembling, having just taken a huge load from a boy he grew up with and considered a friend. He could feel the weight and heat of it sliding down into his stomach, and though Ein didn’t have the words to articulate it, he knew that things had forever changed between he and Duncan. He could never go back to treating Duncan as he had. The brown-haired servant boy who he had called a brother was gone, replaced by… something different. His heart fluttered. He’d meant to endure anything Duncan put him through, in order to keep Starr distracted, but it wasn’t a matter of enduring, not anymore. Duncan, he decided, could do to him what he liked from now on. Whether they died there, that day, or lived another hundred years, Duncan could do _whatever he liked. _His belly burned as he thought about how that huge penis had looked, spurting all over him.  
  
“Fool boy,” Starr groused, though with no real animosity. “He was to be buggered and his balls cut off, and you’ve gone and popped off too early.” The half-joking tone of his voice set Duncan at ease, he’d seen enough abuse to allay his suspicions of conspiracy.  
  
“Patience,” Duncan replied. “An hour or two, I’ll be ready to go again. The day is young. You said yourself, the princess will be raped until she gives out. It may take a while.”  
  
_Please let it take a while. I need time. Time for my message to reach the right ears. And for those ears to saddle and ride. I’ve bought an hour or two, maybe more if Starr forgets. But I need longer than that._  
  
“Aye, fuckin’ fair enough,” Starr said, clapping Duncan on the shoulder. “I guess the noon hour’s too early for a dick cutting, even as fuckin’ pathetic a sight as this one is.” He spat on the floor next to Ein, whose narrow chest was aspirating weakly, his eyes blank, his mouth glazed with cum. He then turned to his men. “Give the signal to the witch. Time to get that brown-skinned tomboy whore fucking.”  
  
The “witch”, Agatha Wormwood, was not on stage with them; indeed, she had taken no part in the preparation or execution of Ein and Cordelia’s humiliation. The black-cloaked old crone had been increasingly distracted in the days leading up to the revel, focused almost entirely on her plans for Sigalda and Alsansam, preparing an altar-like pedestal for the sword, with an attached crucible. This was all placed behind Sigalda, who was kneeling out front, blindfolded, collared with a stout chain, wearing nothing but her thigh-high boots. Her storied physique was on display for the thousands of men who had gone to the beds each night dreaming of catching even the smallest glimpse of her round, perfect ass and plump tits. Until today they would have been happy just to brush a hand across her uniformly caramel skin, but now, with her capture and conditioning, they were promised much more. All week the town criers in the city and every hamlet within a day’s ride had advertised a rape of epic proportions, and those men who had lost brothers and sons and fathers to Sigalda’s blade were surrounding her on all sides, more than eager to do the raping. Hundreds of them. The line stretched all the way to the back of the market square, around the corner, and out of sight.  
  
It was Agatha who set Sigalda’s part in motion, prodding the bound princess with the butt end of her staff, disdainfully, as if shooing a lazy pet. “Go ahead, ye brown-skinned bitch. You’ve got hundreds of these pathetic wretches strokin’ their johnsons, and by the look of ‘em, you’ll be the first female attention they’ve had in a dog’s age.” She reached down and tore Sigalda’s blindfold from her eyes, drawing a gasp as the princess saw for the first time the mass of horny humanity she was to service. Tall and short, fat and thin, they wore shark-toothed grins and shabby clothing that told the story of their poverty and desperation. Some wanted vengeance, others just wanted a piece of the finest ass in Zwei, but they all wanted her in some form or fashion, that was certain - the bulging fronts of the britches were the evidence of that desire. Many were stroking their swarthy, unwashed dicks already.  
  
“I am Princess Knight Sigalda,” she recited, as Agatha had instructed she do, lest the other imprisoned female Knights of the White Lion meet a grisly end. She said it in the low speech, the speech made for transactions such as the one they all contemplated - the language of fucking and whorehouses and back-alley rapes. “A spell has been cast on me, to modify me for… for your pleasure.”  
  
“Fuck you, you murdering cunt!” someone cried, and there was a roar of support. “I’m going to skull-fuck you until your brains are scrambled!”  
  
“I can’t wait to slap the shit out of that haughty royal face!”  
  
Sigalda stayed stone-faced and went on. “As penance, I will service every man in the kingdom. My mouth, pussy, and ass are yours to use. My throat has been enchanted. It’s as sensitive as a pussy, so please don’t hesitate to… to fuck it like one.” Her piercing blue eyes dropped into an expression of reluctant disgust, and Duncan looked on with concern. They had discussed this, of course - that her part to play would be the most difficult of all, but it was still hard to see her in such a state. “My br… my tits have been made extra-sensitive, and I can cum just from having a hard dick shoved between them.” She took a breath, and then, per her jailor’s instructions, perched on her heels and spreading her shapely thighs lewdly, spreading her hairless bronze quim with two fingers to reveal wet pinkness inside that was already dripping with need. “So p-please,” she finished. “Rape me as much as you like with your big cocks.” Her breathing was picking up now, in spite of herself she was turned on by what was about to happen to her. Her mind was resigned, a slave to a body that would no longer obey.  
  
“Now listen all!” Agatha croaked, loud enough to echo over the din. “No stabbing or killing this one, or you’ll answer to me. I’ll turn your worthless nuts into toads and have ‘em hop right up your own god-forsaken shitter, so help me I will, if you don’t heed me. If there’s stabbin’ to be done, do it with your manflesh.” She flourished her staff and a multi-colored fire burst from the crucible next to the altar which held Alsansam, sending the front line of onlookers back a few paces and drawing cries of fear from their throats. That she was no one to be trifled with was clear to them.  
  
“But she should die!” bellowed a man. “For the hundreds of freedom fighters she’s killed!”  
  
“Oh, she’ll die!” Agatha cackled back. “But not until she’s had ever man in Zwei take a turn!” That seemed to be just fine with the assembly, and when Agatha raised her staff again, the guards posted around the wooden dividers took a step back and allowed throng to surge in. They came for Sigalda in a mass of humanity, unbuttoning flies, pulling down britches as they moved, their faces locked in uniformly gruesome expressions of merciless rage and sexual hunger. Their cocks were the first thing to touch her, circling her, bumping into her hands and face, and she tried her best to grab and stroke and suck them all, moving her head around on a swivel to suck on as many knobs as she could find, but this lasted only scant seconds before she was forced to the ground and her thighs pried roughly apart to accommodate the first girthy, greasy cock plowing into her wet slit.  
  
The man’s hands were rough and touched her indecently, groping ass and thigh, as he slid into her tightness. “You like this cock, don’t you? Fuck, you’re as soaking as a bitch in heat! You always needed a good raping to shut your cunt mouth!”  
  
“Nnngh! Thou art a disgusting pig!” Sigalda moaned, knowing that she could deny them nothing, not wanting to deny them whatever assertions would make their cocks hard enough to work on her. Even as her mind rebelled, her body responded. She groaned out an animalistic purr as a heavyset man straddled her chest, sliding his hairy buttocks onto her breasts, and shoved his cock into her mouth, using two hands to force her face up and down his cock. Her mouth and throat immediately exploded with sensations and she bucked under her rapists, her powerful, athletic body arching and shuddering as she had an orgasm from just a few strokes in her mouth and pussy.  
  
“This bitch really is cumming just from getting her mouth fucked!” crowed the man, his hands ashen from the soot of a mine or a cookstove or whatever low-class occupation he’d worked before coming to take vengeance on her. His girthy dick tapered to a thin head, but was thick at the base, with a heavy bein squiggling atop and a large, round wart halfway along the shaft that made her lip flutter each time it stabbed inside. When he pulled out, she had two wiry black pubes in the corners of her mouth and was moaning and gasping like a whore, vibrating the strings of throat goo with her desperate breaths.   
  
“Nnngh, thy cock stinks like offal!” she gurgled, looking horny in spite of herself. “‘Tis so foul, to be fucked by so many of thy nasty dicks! If it wasn’t for this cursed sorcery, I would slay all of thee!”  
  
“Stop talking that noble talk, you dumb bitch!” objected one of the men, and slapped her face degradingly. The thrusting at her pussy became erratic as her bottom rapist lurched forward and delivered inside her, huffing and puffing, having only lasted a minute of plowing away at the tightest, smoothest caramel-colored cunt in Zwei. It wasn’t five seconds before he was replaced by another, who lifted Sigalda’s thighs and pressed them up and out to allow the passage of his own greasy, curved fuck-club. Man after man clutched her head and drilled straight down into the slick, gurgling channel of her throat, giving her a constant beating of cock and balls, staining her face with their sweat, cum and pubes.  
  
“I always said this arrogant slut just needed a good throat fuck!” announced a wiry, unwashed man who was drilling straight down into her gurgling mouth with his long penis. He took pleasure in hilting himself and letting his oily ballsack plug her nostrils until she was beet red with oxygen deprivation. “Gods, her throat is better than any cunt! Here it comes, you dark-skinned bitch! Take my backed up cum!” He buried himself to the balls once again, and his nuts vibrated against her upper lip as he spewed straight down her gullet with hot lances of foul, chunky semen, making a noise like a man relieving himself all the while. When he pulled out to milk the last few strands onto her face, he saw that her mouth was full. “Chew it!” he ordered. “Let’s see you chew that cum!”  
  
Blushing deeply, but unable to resist her craving for the taste and sensation of thick semen, Sigalda complied, laying her head on the ground and staring upward at a circle of horny men, showing the reservoir of rancid, stinky cum in her mouth, gargling it, and then chewing with exaggerated motions. Curly black pubic hairs floated in the yellow-white mess. “Look at this cum-chugging piece of shit!” laughed one of the men. “She just loves eating cum! She’s a real whore!” It was utterly unfair, to accuse her of such things when it was magic that was responsible, but that didn’t change the truth of her situation. Chewing that big mouthful of nasty jizz sent waves of euphoria and pleasure through Sigalda’s body, making her pink, glistening nipples hard and her pussy soaking wet for the next unworthy loser who was lining up to take a poke.  
  
This one happened to be a grotesquely obese man with a huge, hairy cock - the sort of foul slime who could barely pay for a woman, let alone attract one by normal means. He flopped on top of her like a blob, digging his stout, oversized fuck-engine into her soaking box, and she immediately turned her head aside in disgust at his sweaty reek. His nose, large and crusted with warts, bumped into hers as he licked up the side of her face. “I’ve always wanted to make it with a bitch like you!” he growled, and with his pants around his ankles, everyone looking could see every detail of his hairy asshole and fat hamhock buttocks as he began to grind Sigalda with a degrading mating press, scraping her pussy out with his fat, girthy fuckmeat. It was satisfying to all of them to see her get defiled by such a fat loser; she had always seemed so untouchable. “Look, she’s actually enjoying it!” someone crowed. “She’s sucking his tongue!”  
  
It was true. Sigalda was cumming like a whore, spasming helplessly and mindlessly sucking at the fat man’s warty, slimy tongue as he plowed her pussy. His pale, greasy, hairy body flopped and rubbed on her taunt, athletic bronze one as he made straining coital faces and approached orgasm, his huge nuts backed up with semen that he’d been too unpopular to ever release. “F-fill me with thy nasty, smelly cum!” Sigalda wailed, her body in a state of rut. “Nnngh, thy cock is thick!” She returned to making out with his tongue, sucking the warty appendage, while her fat assailant shuddered to a climax and poured his unworthy, unhealthy load into her pussy, creampieing her deep until curds of his backed-up nutslop poured down over her asshole. He let loose a long, sonorous fart as he came, such was the strength of her release.  
  
When he finally gathered himself and rolled off, Sigalda was already a cum and sweat-soaked mess. She looked up to see three more men approaching, with ten ringed behind them, and then ten more. Everywhere she looked was a mass of humanity. They fell on her, placing her on all fours this time, so she could mount one man with her pussy and be mounted in the ass in turn, all while sucking the third dick. Her holes would thus be occupied almost continuously as the afternoon wore on, with men dropping their heavy loads, pulling out and being instantly replaced by another merciless, vengeful thug. They spat in her face, they groped and cockslapped her tits, they fucked her breasts and ass-cheeks and covered these protruding mounds with the greasy loads. They held their stinking cockheads to her nostrils and blew hot rockets of ball chowder straight into her sinuses, laughing as he eyes rolled back at the stench of their thick semen. They even pressed their pissholes directly into her perfect, striking blue eyes, held her lids open, and drowned her eyeballs in rancid coatings of their tar-thick balltrash.  
  
They humiliated her every way they could, treating her ass to prolonged beatings and spankings, squatting and making her rim ass after ass, making her beg to clean out their swampy bowels with her tongue in exchange for the fucking she _needed_ to calm the addiction in her wanton, sizzling cunt. “How does my shit taste, you royal garbage pail?” asked one squatting man, and Sigalda, her will deteriorating, slipped into the low speech, telling him it was amazing, she was nothing but a shit-eating whore who loved to lick ass, that she would say whatever they liked as long as they would fuck her with the big dicks and feed her plenty of cum.  
  
As the hours wore on, her death threats lessened and her begging increased. Some men jerked themselves off instead of waiting in the long line; these emissions were gathered in a wash basin that quickly became a huge, foaming collection of rancid semen, upon which some wit had painted in red: “_Princess Feeding_”. After a suitable amount had been collected, they walked Sigalda over to the basin like a pet animal and, bracing their boots on the back of her head, forced her face into it. They fucked her bubble-butt while she was swilling their collected semen, and for every sated man it seemed there were a dozen more to take his place. How long could she last? At the start she had seemed resigned, forced, stubborn. By dinner time, she had gone from threatening to compliant, chasing orgasms and abuse like a broken whore. One man even punched her right in the face, though he was reprimanded by his fellows on that score. She deserved to be beaten like a whore, that was true. But they didn’t want to mess her up while there was still fucking to be done. Her body, and her cute, defiant, regal features, were too perfect for that.  
  
By the evening, with an orange sunset coming down in the sky, she had stopped most of her verbalizing and acted only as a rag doll, being raped in three holes constantly, jerking two more dicks off with hands that seemed to be pleasuring the men from muscle memory alone. The only noises she made were animalistic, orgasmic grunts. She was completely covered in semen and heavy creampies were leaking out of all of her holes, yet the line to use her was still all the way back through the square and around the corner. When she did utter a few words, it was usually to ask for more.  
  
More cock. More cum. More rape and abuse. She was no longer using the high speech. “Oooh, you have such a big cock!” she mewled, like a horny invalid. “Fucking destroy my pussy!” She didn’t need to ask twice, as she was immediately beset by three more big, unwashed cocks. The man mounting her spit in her face and she shuddered with pleasure. Mistreatment was becoming kindness. Rape was becoming pleasure. Her mind was twisted, weakening, falling apart.  
  
“Show me how you clean a man’s dick cheese, bitch!” ordered the man gripping her skull, and he shoved his unwashed pipe deep into her throat. She groaned and did her best to scrape the filth from his shaft with her wet, horny tongue.  
  
All the while, Agatha watched and smiled wickedly. It would not be long. And once she had Alsansam’s power, all of Zwei could burn for all she cared.


	5. Episode 4, Part 2 (Subbed)

Agatha Wormwood was concerned only with one thing - the power of the greatsword _Alsansam_. Her aged body, long past titillation, did not react to the sight of Sigalda being used and abused by the procession of rebel sympathizers and soldiers, and as they practiced their depravities, she looked on with indifference, caring only about the final result - the weakening of Sigalda’s will.  
  
As the sunset approached, one man was sitting on Sigalda’s face, facing her feet, and thrusting his hairy, greasy cock between her large and perfect breasts, shoving them together with his hands to make a perfect dick-sleeve. A second man, his counterpart, was raising up her buttocks like she was a wheelbarrow, loving the taut feeling of those round, tight, athletic twin half-moons as they bulged in his groping hands, driving his long pipe into her cum-sloppy asshole. In this latter act he was at least the fiftieth man to have done so, just as the first man was at least the fifthieth to lay his member between her soft, tanned teenage tits and fuck them like a pussy. Beneath them, Sigalda moaned hungrily and extended her long tongue to lick and worship her rapist’s asshole, taint and balls, attending to the task with enthusiasm, loving the taste of his spicy sweat. Her own asshole made humiliating liquid noises while being fucked. Her glistening brown tit and ass flesh bulged between the grasping fingers of the men.  
  
“F-fuck! I’m gonna cum in this bitch’s tit-pussy while she licks my asshole! Take it, whore!” the first man growled, and then groaned lewdly as he buried his prick as deep as he could in the channel created by her mashed-together breasts, pumping rope after thick rope of chunky, yellowish wad. When he was spent at last, he withdrew, releasing his grip on her tits and allowing them to separate, revealing a sagging mess of cum between that hung between her sun-kissed globes like a rope bridge. Curly stray pubes decorated her tits in the aftermath of his defilement. Sigalda cried out loudly as the man in her ass hilted himself and finished as well, adding to the hot, churning load of cum in her bowels. She had a helpless orgasm as from the magnified stimulation; for Agatha’s sorcery had made her tits and asshole as sensitive as her clitoris. She barely had time to cry out before three more men approached, flipped her over to lay face down, ass up, and simultaneously jammed their sweaty, scimitar-curved cocks into her asshole, stretching her open with a double-penetration as both girthy rods ripped her bowels apart. Her mouth, from which a warbling wail had ben emanating, was quickly plugged by a third dick that burrowed down her throat with zero regard for her well-being or ability to breathe. And thus the cycle began anew under Agatha’s watchful eye.  
  
But the witch was growing impatient. Only she knew the depth of might Alsansam contained; people who saw it as a just a “magic sword” had only seen the shadowed edges of its significance. To gain that power, she had to unlock it, and Sigalda was the key. Within the princess, anchored to her will and mind, was a tether that connected her to the godsoul within Alsansam and allowed her to call upon its power. She would stop at nothing. The entire rebellion, and her part in it, was only a means to this end. For the godsoul within Alsansam was enough to sustain her for a thousand years, and make her the most powerful sorceress in the land, a match for ten of Garavant’s archmagi.  
  
If she destroyed Sigalda’s mind, the tether, and it’s connect to the godsoul, would be hers to claim. That she could not simply kill Sigalda was an inconvenience of the highest order. If she did so, Alsansam’s tether would pass to another worthy member of the Zwei royal line, escaping her grasp. If that happened, she would have no way of knowing which confounded cousin, uncle, or distant relation of Sigalda’s would receive the spark. Normally it would be her child, but the headstrong, man-killing bitch had taken no husband. And her mincing, sissy brother was far from “worthy”. Thus, she had to take it directly from Sigalda. This was the only chance she would have where she knew the tether’s host and had her completely under control. Finding it again, and engineering another advantageous situation like this rebellion, which had given her time to work her mind-bending magics, would take far too long.  
  
But even _this_ brute force method was taking too much time.  
  
The brown-skinned, foul-tempered princess was as stubborn as an ox, and her mind was an iron shell. While Sigalda being was set upon, Agatha had busied herself with an augury, mixing a handful of bones and setting the head and feathers of a sparrow alight, conjuring purple smoke from her seer’s brazier. In moments, her eyes gained soul vision, seeing two worlds at once, and to her, Sigalda’s will appeared as a shining beacon of white light, rough and spherical, within her body. As the princess was degraded, the outer layers of the sphere started to fall away and scatter, like the petals of a dying rose. Agatha knew that when the last layer was scrubbed away by her dehumanizing rape and humiliation, Sigalda’s mind would be blank, her will destroyed, and the power of Alsansam laid bare for the witch to claim. As the hours wore on, and the layers of Sigalda’s psyche continued to peel away, the process was slowing down. The final layers, comprising her core identity, were deteriorating only with agonizing slowness.   
  
“Aye, ye’re a stubborn bitch,” Agatha hissed, as she watched yet another hairy, sweaty miscreant pin Sigalda’s legs back against her shoulders and burrow his root into her cum-soaked box in a lewd mating press, showing off his lard-ass and sweaty balls. “Old Agatha respects ye, so I do - and on the battlefield I’d have given ye a wide berth. But if these drunken fools can’t pry the last of your mind loose, Agatha has just the thing.”  
  
She waved her staff and a circle of starry blackness appeared on the ground between her and Sigalda, sending a group of the horny men stumbling away in alarm. Spittle flew from her aged mouth as she intoned words in a language none of them had ever heard, words that seemed to twist her mouth and bend her jaw just to utter them: “_Deum vobiscum facio vocco ferre!_” The chant went on from there, repeating over and over, sounding less human with each black verse. Agatha raised a wrinkled, bunch-knuckled hand and splayed her fingers. A purple pentagram appeared in the starry ring, which seemed to be encircled in voidfire, licking flames made up of pure darkness. The circle widened, and the dimensions of the symbol with it, and a pair of figures rose out of the blackness. Monstrous figures, humanoid and bipedal, but unmistakable for monsters nonetheless, in that they were twelve feet tall; one was ebon-skinned with the head of a bull, and the other brutish and yellow-skinned, with a large, single cyclops eye dominating its features. The crowd screamed and broke into a run almost immediately, including the line of would-be rapists, leaving Sigalda alone in the colosseum-like enclosure as they ducked behind the wooden dividers and around street corners, some not even pausing to tuck their dicks back into their trousers as they fled.  
  
That the summoned brutes were entities meant to rape and fuck was obvious. Their terrifying bodies were corded with the thick muscle needed to physically dominate, and they wore scant fetishistic clothing - studded leather suspenders and harnesses that spoke to bondage and enslavement. Their nipples were pierced with thick iron rings, as was the snout of the bull, and their wrists wrapped with spiked leather bracelets. Their cocks hung with enormous, heavy flaccidity, with cock rings at the mid-point that were attached to their belts by a chain at a forty-five degree angle. Each penis was well over two feet long and as thick as Sigalda’s leg, disproportionate in size even to their giant-sized bodies. Their sloshing, cum-loaded balls hung obscenely low in stretched, exaggerated scrotums.  
  
“_Pussy_,” the minotaur growled, and it was barely audible as a word; the monster’s rumbling voice was so low it was felt rather than heard, a deep bass note. It snorted and steam poured from its wet nostrils as a slobbering bestial tongue slid from its mouth and licked about. Its cock was humanoid rather than bovine, but no less frightening for that familiarity. It was deep brown, almost black, and crusted with a pronounced network of veins and bumps. The tip was textured with conical bumps that would no doubt dig at and abrade a woman’s insides. In a foul display of virility, yellowish, chunky semen was already leaking from its large pisshole. It took four great, stomping strides to Sigalda, who was laying on her back, thighs spread, in a pool of semen, totally covered in the stuff. Her constant orgasms from throat, pussy, ass, and tit-fucking had left her weak and at her wit’s end, yet even in that state, she could see through half-lidded eyes that the monster’s hanging, dripping penis was a body-destroyer.  
  
“N-no,” she whispered hoarsely, blinking her blue eyes weakly beneath cum-sticky lashes. Her voice had a syrupy quality from all the cum in her throat. “It’s… too big!”  
  
“_Pussy_,” growled the cyclops, moving with large, stomping strides to stand on her opposite side. It was thicker in body than the minotaur, barrel-bellied and ogre-like in countenance. Its jaundiced yellow cock hung like a slab of beef from a butcher’s hook, heavy and uneven and covered in ridges and bumps, the head concealed by a long, jaundiced foreskin in greyish yellow. A dollop of hot semen slid from the enclosed end and landed on Sigalda’s thigh with a splat, as if the brute had so much in his balls that it was already overflowing.  
  
The cyclops stooped ponderously and encircled Sigalda’s waist with one massive hand, picking her up effortlessly like a child’s doll, her legs and arms splayed and lilting bonelessly. Sigalda took one look at the cyclops’ disgusting, foreskin-wrapped fuckmeat and struggled weakly, yet it was of little avail against the physically overpowering summoned beast. “Pussy,” it said again, that low bass note that made her spine tremble.   
  
“T-this is too much!” Sigalda moaned, as the cyclops gripped her about the waist and turned her over, holding her rump up to press it against the underside of his huge pipe. “It will never fit!”  
  
_CLICK!_  
  
Both monsters released their cock-harnesses from their belts, removing their cock-rings and letting the circlets fall to the ground, where they lay like discarded manacles, large enough in circumference to go around a man’s neck. Using two hands at her waist, the cyclops began to use Sigalda’s butt as a masturbating device, rubbing her against the fat, cylindrical pipe, again uncannily like a child with a doll. Sigalda’s face was helpless as she looked behind herself and continued to protest, but soon the minotaur moved forward and gripped her shoulders with two mighty hands, steadying her and leaving her bronzed, cum-slick body as a bridge between their two bellies. Sigalda gasped and gagged as her face was pressed into the bull-beast’s reeking, sweaty cockshaft.  
  
Duncan, watching from the center stage with Ein clinging to his leg after repeated bouts of cock-sucking, knew that the time was rapidly approaching for his plan to show fruit or fail. Starr all but confirmed this, placing a hand on his shoulder and confiding that he should stop ‘teasing’ Ein and finish the job he’d started in sissifying the prince in front of all of his furious subjects. The monsters were the main center of attention, now, but there was still a sizeable crowd in front of the stage that was calling for Ein’s ass to be fucked and his cock served up on a platter to symbolize the ultimate emasculation and impotence of the crown. To his opposite side, Queen Cordelia, who had been fucking her horse husband all day, was collapsed on her hay bale, displaying her prolapsed, horse-fucked pussy and ass to a hundred jeering onlookers, being called a _slut_, a _whore_, and a _horse-fucking piece of shit_ as massive creampies of equine semen slid from both of her distended holes. Duncan could see that she, too, would not last much longer.  
  
Still, there was no word of his plan’s success.  
  
_No word. It has to be in the next hour. If it’s not… what I’ve done will become clear. And it’ll be my neck in a noose. All our necks. Mine, Sigalda’s, Ein’s, and the queen’s too._  
  
Starr hoisted Ein to his feet by the hair, drawing a peep from the boy, and then shoved him to all fours, putting his tight, boyish bubble-butt on display. The boy had kept Duncan’s cock hard all day, sucking cock for his life, still playing the jester, making him cum and delaying his ass-fucking in what had become a joke among the men - if he could keep satisfying Duncan’s prick with his mouth, they joked, he would save his asshole from destruction. Yet of course, they had no intent of letting him save himself, no matter how tight his cute faggot sissy-boy mouth was, and Ein was out of time.  
  
He was ready. Shuddering, he looked back over his shoulder, arched his smooth back, and thrust his cute, round butt up in the air, pulling his cheeks apart and letting Duncan see the flawless, inviting pinkness of his asshole as it winked above the round pouch of his smooth, hairless balls. The idea that this was a boy he had called a friend, and grown up beside, made Duncan’s cock iron-hard, in spite of any trepidations he might have about what would happen to Ein in the next hour. If it came to it, he decided, he would make it quick. He wouldn’t let Ein suffer any more than the prince already had.  
  
“P-Please,” Ein moaned, using his hands to bounce his ass-cheeks up and down like a common whore. “Pound my faggot ass-pussy with your huge cock!” Duncan would normally have been astounded to hear the shy, mild-mannered Ein use such words, but Ein had learned well from weeks of being made to crossdress; while being teased mercilessly by Starr’s men he’s been subject to a veritable encyclopedia of slurs and insults, with ‘faggot’ being foremost among them. Now, the effeminate boy was putting his lessons to practical use, and his earnest participation made Duncan’s dick hard. There was no denying that Ein was a born cocksucker and fagboi, and the idea that a day of sucking Duncan’s cock had lit that fire inside him made the taller, brown-haired boy even hornier than before.  
  
“You want it bad, don’t you Ein?” Duncan seethed, fisting his prick and poking the head up against Ein’s asshole, forcing his pale, smooth cheeks apart and pressing in with enough force to cause his own mighty prong to bow into a slight curve.  
  
“Yeeees!” Ein mewled, cutely. The long day of oral worship had his slutt femmeboi libido as hot as a firecracker, and given the choice between giving in to despair or embracing his role, he’d chosen the latter. “I need your big dick in my ass!”  
  
“You’re a disgusting, cum-slurping faggot, aren’t you, Ein?”  
  
“Yes! I just want to drink your cum! I’ll be the best girl you could ever want, Duncan! I’ll be your cock-sucking little butt bitch, every day!” He wagged his cute bottom, dragging Duncan’s cocktip from side to side with it, while the assembled men laughed at his verbal self-abuse. His eyes told Duncan that he meant every word. It had been an act at the start, but in this final hour, everything Ein was saying was completely honest. There was no doubt in Duncan’s mind that if they somehow survived this, Ein would be happy to slip into his bedroom and wake him up every morning with some hot femmeboi cocksucking. And that ring of truth lent authenticity to what they were doing, throwing Starr off the scent in this crucial final moment. Like the reason for the rebellion itself, it was a disgrace, but based on truth.  
  
Duncan looked over to to his left. Perhaps twenty yards away, Sigalda’s was suspended horizontally between the two huge, hulking monsters, cyclops and minotaur, their cocks poised to penetrate her throat and pussy. He knew there was no way her will could survive such a brutal penetration - the two massive, conjured studs made his own huge cock look small by comparison. That meant he was out of time. He had to proceed, and leave the rest to fate. In an hour, he knew, he would either be dead or triumphant.  
  
The crowd saw that he was on the precipice of finally penetrating the prince, and chanted “Rape the faggot!” over and over again, their eyes filled with hatred for the royal family. Ein looked back at Duncan and offered a resigned lip-trembling smile, his blue eyes sending a clear message.  
  
_Do it, Duncan. If I’m to die, I don’t mind… as long as you’re my killer._  
  
He drove his long, thick cock into Ein’s asshole at the same time that Sigalda’s monster partners held her in place and spit-roasted her body, tearing their girthy dicks into her throat and ass. Ein made an echoing, undulating noise like a stuck animal, high-pitched and framentary, lurching forward but keeping his shapely back arched and his legs extended, causing his small cock to aim straight down. A hot stream of clear semen spewed from his cocktip as he came helplessly from Duncan’s thick meat ripping apart his bowels. There was an audible crunch as his prostate was crushed flat by the sixteen inch monster that was stretching his intestinal walls. His tongue fell from his mouth and his limbs became uncoordinated as Duncan _sawed_ into his guts. He made a constant low moaning sound, and the crowd jeered and pointed as his bouncing, hairless little dick spewed out ropes of infertile, faggy cum off the end of the stage and into the front row. There wasn’t a single sperm cell to be detected anywhere in his issue as it jetted from his penis in glistening, irregular ropes that were completely clear, like water.  
  
“Look!” came a voice from the crowd. “The prince is cumming like a fucking bitch from being pounded in the ass!”  
  
“He’s squirting like a girl from his pathetic little clit-dick! The royal family really are worthless!”  
  
Ein, forced to crossdress and suck dick, had long ago lost any semblance of regal propriety, but in the throes of having his asshole stretched and remodeled by Duncan’s size, achieved new levels of humiliation. Everyone saw his eyes rolled back, the drool hanging off his tongue, the hardness of his little dick and his puffy erect nipples, they saw the brainlessly joyous look on his face as his cute bubble butt was railed by a huge dick. There was no doubt in anyone’s mind that the heir to the Zwei throne was nothing more than a cum-farting, ass-sniffing, ball-sucking, butt-fucking faggot femmeboi bitch who had the body of a ripe 14-year-old girl and a tiny, spermless clit-dick.  
  
Yet as brutal as Ein’s humiliation was, Sigalda perhaps had it worse. Not only had she been fucked by hundreds of men and been forced to take all of their cum and piss on her face, breasts, and ass, but Agatha Wormwood’s summoned monsters were now taking her over the edge, driving the stake into the last vestiges of her will and dignity as hundreds watched in the crowded market square. She was held, limbs splayed, in a downward-facing horizontal position between them, and only had time to complain one last time that the impending penetrations were ‘impossible’ and would ‘destroy her’ before the monsters grunted and thrust forward.  
  
There was a wet, liquid sound of flesh shifting. Sigalda’s jaw creaked and her neck expanded like an air bladder as the minotaur’s enormous dick slammed down her windpipe and straight into her stomach, where the head lodged and pressed her digestive organs deep into her compacted guts. At the same time, the cyclops gripped her shapely hips and pulled her back onto his grotesquely large penis, stretching out her vaginal canal, driving all the way to her womb and beyond, stretching her cervix out in elastic fashion and filling her whole womb with his yellow, cum-leaking cockhead, pressing that sacred area up into her body as well. To anyone watching it seemed like the monster dicks were long enough to meet in the middle of her body and butt against each other!  
  
Sigalda’s eyes immediately rolled back to the whites and she gurgled and lost control of all of her limbs and bodily functions, spraying an indecent shower of hot piss onto the ground beneath her. Her arms and legs dangled down limply, and the taut, beautiful skin of her belly was distended into the shapes of the grinding, thrust dicks within. In that state she looked less like beautiful, regal young woman and more like a stretched out cocksleeve. She seemed totally catatonic as the enormous monsters began to fuck, coring out her insides and shoving her internals around with a sloshing noise as their dicks pulverized her innards. With each stroke, her belly bulged around their grotesquely large insertions with what seemed to be mortal distension. She was, they all say, being fucked more brutally than any woman before or since.  
  
“Fuck her to death!” came the cries. “For all she’s killed, she deserves no less!” And the chorus followed, saying _fuck her, fuck her, rape her, chain her up_ and _make her bear the offspring of those creatures_. They seemed to grow more bloodthirsty with each sordid, wet, meaty stroke, reveling in the sounds they heard, the noisome squelching of two huge, monster cocks pulverizing her insides. So many of them had hated her, but they had lusted for her as well, and been jealous of the highborn suitors who had called upon her when she came of age. Sigalda had no use for suitors, she was a warrior, and even this fact had been twisted by her detractors into proof of her stubborn wrongheadedness - that she felt her maidenhead was so precious, she was too good for any man to woo.  
  
Now, they exalted in the fact that her once sought-after pussy was a destroyed whore hole for huge monster dicks. The way that cyclops was fucking her, her womb would be too stretched out and useless to ever bear a child, and she would feel her own fertility get snuffed out and her ovaries flattened before she finally passed away. Princess Knight Sigalda, the fearsome woman that had made them all tremble, was nothing more than a monster-raped piece of shit. Her brother was a cum-chugging faggot, and her mother, a horse-fucking slut. The Royal Family of Zwei, their cross and burden for so long, the collector of their taxes and conscriptor of their sons, was well and truly dead. Those who saw things this way saw Starr as a hero, and stroked their dicks with satisfaction at every indignity suffered by Sigalda, Ein and Cordelia.  
  
As he grunted and thrust his long, thick cock into Ein’s asshole, Duncan achieved a sort of hyper-alertness, as if everything were moving in slow motion. He felt the amazing sensation of Ein’s tight, round ass squeezing his cock… the jiggle of the prince’s rear under the flesh of his palms. He saw the faces of the drunken, screaming, vicious louts who made up the front row - the flecks of spittle flying from their mouths, their broken teeth, the blank hatred in their eyes. Was the country worth saving? Had it all been pointless? He was getting close to his own orgasm; he knew that in scant moments, Starr would hand him a dagger and order him to murder Ein, the coupe de grace in the general’s sick, farcical ceremony. Then, among the jeers and epithets coming from Starr’s inner circle, he heard the gruff voice of the scoutmaster.  
  
“General Starr! Our scouts report that Garavant reinforcements have arrived at the capital city! They march toward the square!”  
  
Duncan’t heart began to beat even faster as she pounded Ein’s sweet, milking, femmeboi ass-pipe. He cast a sideward glance at Agatha Wormwood, off to his left, as the news spread through the rebellion ranks about the impending arrival of the troops from the neighboring magical country of Garavant. She was not paying attention to the news, her eyes were focused on Sigalda and her own ceremony with Alsansam, focused to the point of total obsession. In her face he saw nothing but pure greed for the sword’s power, and not a care in the world for any living thing; not Sigalda, not the rabble, not Starr’s rebellion.  
  
_Please_, thought Duncan. _Please, let me be right about this._  
  
“Do you hear that, boy?” Starr crowed. “Finally the witch makes fuckin’ good on her promise, our allies from Garavant are fuckin’ here at last, better late than never. With their numbers we can pacify not just this city but the entire countryside, and sack any noble houses and private armies that might have spine enough to oppose us!” For the first time, the foul, murdering bastard sounded happy. “We’ve won! For a piece of Zwei, annexed to Garavant, they’ll give us all the supplies and logistical support we need!”  
  
Cheers went up from the rebels on stage, and there was much handshaking and congratulations. But Duncan saw that Agatha was still not paying attention, she was looking at Sigalda like a greedy cat with a dying canary. Duncan had counted on that. Agatha was the one who had promised the Garavant reinforcements, after all, she had partnered with Starr from the very start, asking only the sword for herself and a swathe of western territory for her country.  
  
_You were lying, weren’t you, you old bitch, _he thought. For his plan to work, she would have to be. _Come on, Sigalda. Just hold on a little longer. Hold on as long as you can._  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
Sigalda could feel her mind breaking. It was not a fair fight, she knew, and the unfairness of it was the cruelest barb of all, for she had never feared stacked odds or hard tasks before; with Alsansam on her back she had confronted enemies ten, twenty, fifty times her number and emerged victorious. But this time, the wheel of chance was weighted too far in favor of the house. The sorcery of Agatha Wormwood had made her body too hot, too responsive.   
  
And… gods... the monster dicks were just too big!  
  
That she could feel little pain was humiliating in its own way. Instead, she felt a throb of dark pleasure from her stretched insides, her entire body was constantly spasming with orgasms as the huge dicks burrowed in her holes and stretched her out. She was barely holding on, and she knew that when the foul beasts threw back their heads and bellowed, pumping their huge, disgusting loads of monster semen into her guts, she would not be able to hold on. Not because she hated being raped by the beasts, but because the pleasure was too great.  
  
She closed her eyes and thought of a time, years past, that Duncan had spied on her bathing in a hot spring. She had detected him and cried out an oath, shaking her fist and running around the pool stark naked, with water sparkling and beading off her body, trying to catch him. He’d somehow convinced Ein to come along, since the other female knights of the White Lion were bathing in the spring as well. She’d giving him a good walloping when she finally caught him that day, but in his precocious young face, no more than 10 years old, she’d seen that he considered the beating to be a small price to pay to see her shapely boobs and rear. That Duncan had managed to enlist Ein in his mischief was testament to boy’s persuasiveness, and Sigalda had asked why Duncan would ever bring Ein along on such a fool’s errand.  
  
“Duncan says that seeing the huge boobs of all the Knights of the White Lion will turn me into an adult faster,” Ein had replied. “Then I can become a Knight, and be big and strong, and protect you, sister!” Sigalda could tell from his face that he believed every word of Duncan’s bullshit.  
  
“It wasn’t Ein’s fault, I lied to him,” Duncan had claimed, smiling a crooked, boyish smile. “Please, blame me, Princess. I was… hypnotized. By your enormous brown bubble-butt!” She had glowered at the brown-haired boy and struck him an additional blow. Yet she’d been struck herself, by how like brothers they were, and with Duncan’s ingenuity and Ein’s earnestness. The way Duncan had wanted to protect him, he was more like a knight than many nobles she had known. That was one memory, she had hundreds more of the three of them together.  
  
_I’m sorry Duncan_, she thought. _I lasted as long as I could. My body is completely filled with huge monster cock, and I just keep having orgasms. I love these huge, smelly dicks that fuck up my throat and ass. I love being raped. I love being hit. I love being fucked by cocks that tear apart my insides and that stink and are covered with smegma. I want these huge monsters to rape me and use me as a toilet. It feels so good. I just want to be a breeding factory for ugly, warped half-breed monster babies. I’ll pop out as many monster babies as they want and suck my sons’ big monster dicks as well. I want all of their disgusting yellow semen that smells like trash, I want it to fill my body. I love semen! I love rape, and semen, and drinking sour, rotten monster piss! I just want to get raped and pissed on by every man. I want my pussy and throat and ass to be destroyed and prolapsed and gaping. I want these monsters to use my holes to piss in, I’ll cum so hard, taking all of their piss. I want to get raped all day by huge three-foot monster cocks! Sigalda wants semen! Sigalda wants rape. Please beat and rape and fuck me as much as you like! Semen! Semen! Semeeeeeeeeeeeeen!_  
  
The memory of her and Ein and Duncan at the hot spring flickered in her mind and was gone as she had the largest orgasm yet. And the monsters did throw their heads back, hilting their brutal cocks to the their misshapen, cum-sloshing balls. Sigalda’s body seemed to accordion inward as their pressed their bellies together, her limbs flopping, her eyes rolled back. There was an unspeakable, liquid SLUUUUURG sound as they filled her guts with unspeakable amounts of disgusting, oatmeal-thick monster semen. Huge, fermented gouts of the smelly stuff blew back out of her mouth and pussy in an explosion, slopping into the ground in waves. Her belly expanded in an astounding fashion, becoming something a taut, brown hemisphere, larger even than a woman in the late stages of pregnancy. The monsters roared in triumph, raising their arms, letting her float in mid-air, spit-roasted on their huge prongs, with waterfalls of semen pouring from her pussy and ass.  
  
Slowly, with a wet plop, Sigalda slid off of their dicks and flopped to the ground into a thick puddle of semen, splashing it everywhere. Her eyes were unfocused, her mouth hanging open, her slovenly cum-belly bulging obscenely in a stark contrast to her usual tight, chiseled midriff. She made an indecent wretching noise and then vomited a huge, thick gout of monster dick-snot in an arc from her mouth. At the same time, with a curdled, loose sound, an equally large jet queefed out of her pussy. Some onlookers had to turn away in disgust, while the more depraved could not turn away. They had never seen a woman be more completely defiled.  
  
“Seeemen,” Sigalda gurgled, rubbing her cum-belly. “I want seeemen. Please, rape me some more! Raaaaape! Semeeen!” All that was left of her was a mind-broken disgrace, and when the monsters held their flaccid dicks out and began to piss huge, wrist-thick blasts of urine directly into her face and belly, she did not even flinch, only let the waste pour into her unblinking eyes while she swilled as much as she could.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
Duncan watched Sigalda’s final defilement from his perch at the front of the stage. It coincided with his own orgasm, as he leaned over Ein’s prone form and buried his root deep into the smaller boy’s inviting, round ass, pumping rope after rope of hot semen deep into his bowels. “Take my cum, Ein, you fucking faggot!” he wheezed, and Ein moaned, begging for it, squeaking like a girl about how he _wanted it, needed it_, that he was a _fag for Duncan’s cock_ then and forever. He wasn’t his brother anymore, he was his bitch. As Duncan pumped his ass full of cream, Ein showered the crowd with yet another watery, infertile load from his faggy, sissy clit-dick.  
  
Duncan slumped over Ein’s tight ass like a boy about to roll off of his first whore, then slowly withdrew, looking to see the damage he’d done. Immediately, a thick creampie spurted out of Ein’s destroyed shitter and down over the prince’s hairless balls and small dick. Ein collapsed onto one hip, and the creampie began to slid down over one of his round buttocks, showing off the milky, well-complexioned curve of his cheek. His eyes were unfocused, his mouth gasping in short, hoarse breaths.  
  
Duncan didn’t know it, but he had changed Ein’s life forever with that fateful, deep ass-fuck. Ein had always been uncertain of his sexuality, avoiding the subject mostly, and reacting with awkward acquiescence to conversations about what bride me might take or who he might marry, once he was of age to take the throne. Now, though, those fuzzy, uncertain ideas about relationships and girls had been brought into sharp contrast. From that moment forward, Ein’s sex life would be defined by what had happened on that stage. The experience of taking a huge, sixteen inch cock in his ass had forever changed him. The slight, blonde boy knew that any girl he might marry, any child he might have in furtherance of the family line, it would all be a sham.  
  
He was a fag. A sissy fag from the top of his feathered blonde hair to the bottom of his dainty feet. A bubble-butt, cock-sucking fag who loved the biggest, thickest servant cocks drilled straight up his asshole. No small noble cocks for him, only the swarthy, olive toned dicks of the lower class, like Duncan’s. All of his uncertainty was gone and replaced with purpose. Ein knew he might die, he knew he might never be king. But regardless of what happened then or in the future, he intended to suck as many other boys’ cocks as he could, take as much big dick in the ass as he could find, and dress like the a complete faggot cocksucker every day, so that guys with big dicks wouldn’t be able to resist bending him over and pounding his tight boy-butt. Duncan, especially. If the other boy would let him, he would gladly sleep with Duncan’s cock in his mouth and wake him up with morning blowjobs each day for as long as Duncan would allow him. Gods, he loved dick, and taking cum in the face, and feeling a huge creampie sloshing in his loose bowels. Even if they were to die, he was glad to be able to experience that honest truth for even this one, brief moment.  
  
He looked up and his eyes met Duncan’s. The two friends exchanged a glance, and that was when Starr pressed the dagger into Duncan’s had.  
  
“It’s time, boy,” said the general. “Off with his dick. Neuter that faggot and toss his manhood to the crowd. Let no man, woman, or child forget what they saw here today, when the rebellion brought down the royal family of Zwei, once and for all.”  
  
Duncan’s hand wrapped around the hilt of the knife. He approached Ein, his eyes merciless. This was all part of his plan. Ein knew that too.  
  
_If it’s you, it’s alright, Duncan. As long as it’s you._  
  
Starr pulled Ein to his feet. Duncan, his face unreadable, stepped into cutting range.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
It wasn’t there.  
  
Agatha Wormwood shrieked to the high heavens. Lightning cracked in the sky, seeming to symbolize her outrage. When those two summoned monsters had broken Sigalda’s mind and body, the last petal of her will’s white rose her will had fallen away. The tether to Alsansam’s power was to be hers. She had the rite prepared. Yet inside that white rose, visualized in her augury, when the last petal fell away, had been…  
  
Nothing.  
  
No tether.  
  
No power.  
  
“Gods damn ye!” she shrieked, and several of the rebel guards shrunk away at her furious anger. “GODS DAMN YE! IT WAS TO BE MINE!” She overturned her altar, dumping sword and all onto the ground, and followed it with the burning brazier she’d been using to perform her invocations. Where was it? Alsansam’s power had gone from Sigalda, at some point, somehow! But how? Sigalda could not freely give it away, or she would have, to save her kingdom! It could only be taken from her. But who else could totally dominate her will, and break her mind?  
  
She looked up at the stage, furiously. Clutching her staff in one body hand, she began to march toward it.  
  
“Lady Agatha!” cried one of the rebel guards, noticing her rage. “Be calm, reinforcements from-”  
  
Agatha extended her staff, and a vine-like spike exploded from the tip, skewering the man, pinning him to the side of the stage like an insect. The staff again seemed to be a living, moving thing of black thorn and vine, and Agatha’s face, never pleasant to look at even at the best of times, was black with rage. “Don’t ye ever stop me whilst I’m walking, cully,” she hissed, and stepped brusquely past. The other guards only turned and ran. The crowd became restless at the violence.  
  
Agatha gritted her teeth. Who had done it? Who? Which worm dared to undermine the plans of Agatha Wormwood, Black Witch of Garavant, and take her power as his own? Her eyes focused on the stage, and she strode up the steps. Had it been Starr? That fool didn’t have the wits, nor the balls! She thought back to his reports, their terse conversations about Garavant reinforcements and the princess’ condition.  
  
_You promised me men! I cannot hold the capital against the outlying noble houses, without more men._  
  
_You’ll have them. And what of the princess? Have your guards treated her as I instructed?_  
  
_Yes. They mistreat and fuck her every day. A protege of mine sees her every day, and fucks her brutally, his is the biggest prick we have. Do you care about nothing else?_  
  
_Never mind what old Agatha cares about, cur. You’ll have your men and I’ll have Alsansam’s power. All in good time._  
  
Her eyes narrowed and focused on Duncan, Starr’s words ringing again in her ears. That boy. That handsome boy, hair hanging to his neck, eyes always alight with mischief. That boy who had been in the throne room that first day, that Starr had taken under his wing as a symbol of the servant class made powerful.  
  
_A protege of mine sees her every day, and fucks her brutally. His is the biggest prick we have._  
  
The sniveling brat was poised over the sissy prince, looking to cut his dick off, but her blustering arrival interrupted them. “Starr, ye goddamned fool,” she croaked, spraying flecks of old-woman spittle as she cursed him. “Ye gormless half-wit!”  
  
Starr turned to her. “What the fuck are you doing, witch? This is our hour of triumph. The troops you promised are here! Our victory is at hand! Now that our position is secure, the sword is just a matter of-”  
  
Agatha looked utterly vexed. “Troops?” Her eyes narrowed. “What troops?!”  
  
Now it was Starr’s turn to look surprised. “The troops! The Garavant mages and horsemen! My scouts tell me they’ve entered the capital.”  
  
His voice trailed off. Agatha and Starr stared at each other. The general saw the incomprehension in the old woman’s face and realized the truth, too late.  
  
Agatha had no idea what he was talking about. She knew nothing of any Garavant forces. She had never intended to call them. That meant, the troops from Garavant were-  
  
_SLLCH!_  
  
A noise like silver. The pain was a sting, at first. Starr’s thinking ceased. His liver-tongue slowly slid from the corner of his mouth. He made desperate choking noises, and his hands clenched and unclenched. He looked down, unbelieving, and saw the dagger hilt protruding from his side, expertly placed between two ribs. Attached to that dagger was Duncan’s hand. The boy, a head shorter than him, a teen, barely a man, had gotten the drop on him. He heard the predatory hiss of the Duncan’s voice in his ear and recognized it, the way a viper recognizes the others of his nest.  
  
_“Burn in hell, you piece of shit.”_  
  
His vision rapidly fading, Starr croaked out a final breath, his wide eyes vibrating in their sockets. _I wish I had ten of you, boy_, he thought. _Ten like you, we could rule the whole fuckin’ world._  
  
Everyone was still. Starr’s guardsmen took a step back from Duncan. The murder in his eyes had cowed them. The man who had kept them in line was no more, and things seemed to be turning. They saw their doom in the boy’s eyes. The vengeance that would send them all up the scaffold as war criminals and rapists. They looked at each other with uncertainty, watching him tuck his long, flaccid penis back into his button-fly britches, the absurd afterthought to the killing.  
  
They began to back away. Only Agatha stood her ground, clutching her staff with whitened, arthritic knuckles. She gestured with it and a spike shot from the tip, piercing Duncan’s shoulder, lifting him up on his tiptoes with a cry of pain.  
  
“You!” she cried. It was an accusation. “Ye think you’re smart, do ye? I’ll make ye suffer, boy. Aye, ye’ll suffer for what you’ve done, putting yourself up against old Agatha. I’ll show ye what I’ve learned of pain, boy, in a thousand lifetimes!”  
  
Duncan’s vision swam with the pain as Agatha hoisted him up. She was unnaturally strong, it was as he thought, that her aged body didn’t tell the full tale of her prowess. Even through his own cries, though, and the din of the confused crowd, he heart the beat of hooves and the clashing of swords. His mind went back to the message he had tied to the foot of that carrier pigeon, those weeks before.  
  
_Murder and rebellion in Zwei. Killers in red sashes hold the capital, led by a dark witch who claims your allegiance. Do not hesitate to bring aid, if you love us._  
  
He had stamped it with the king’s seal. As he twisted on Agatha’s makeshift pike, his shoulder aflame with pain, he heard cries and clashing steel as Garavant dragoons rode into the rebel guards and scattered them. The rescue was imminent.  
  
“Ye little shit! I’ll see you dead!” Agatha howled, additional thorny spikes began to grow from her staff, aiming to skewer his eyes, his heart, his throat. Duncan thrust out his hand, high in the air.  
  
“ALSANSAM! In the name of the Knights of the White Lion, fly to me!”  
  
There was an explosion of light, a hemispheric shockwave from the overturned altar, and within moments the sword was in the air, forming a white streak. It slammed perfectly into Duncan’s palm, a massive zweihander that looked like an adult man could barely swing it, yet he was able to move it with supernatural grace, cutting downward and severing Agatha’s staff, bringing another explosion of light, sending everyone on stage tumbling back, and more than a few men off the edge and down to the stone of the square. Wood splintered and flew. When the dust cleared, only Agatha and Duncan, with Ein clinging to his leg, were left upright.  
  
“Yes. I took her will,” he explained. “Before you even started today, the power of the sword was already in my hands. I broke her myself, in that jail cell, day after day.”  
  
“Impossible!” Agatha shrieked. “The power follows the royal bloodline! My ritual is the only thing that could claim it otherwise! Even if what you say is true, how could you have Alsansam’s power?”  
  
“Get away, witch!” Duncan roared. In truth, he was completely exhausted, and wounded in the shoulder. He did not think he could beat Agatha in a fight. All he wanted to do was scare her and make her run. His hair was wild, the sword thrumming with power, and he looked the part of a warrior, if a short, boyish one. But he had never practiced with Alsansam, never wielded it before. Aside from a few brief instructions from Sigalda on how to call it forth, he had no idea how to use it.  
  
Agatha did not back down. As a backdrop to their staredown, magic was flying through the air like fireworks as the Garavant mage corps unloaded a fiery arsenal of spells on the fleeing rebel army. The peasants were scattering, but those who hadn’t marked themselves sympathizers with red sashes were spared. Meanwhile, Starr’s lines were disintegrating under the concentrated attack of Garavant’s shock troops.   
  
Agatha’s body began to thrum with power. Her staff crackled with energy, and Duncan realized she was getting taller. He could actually _hear_ her bones popping as they expanded. Her black eyes were relentless pits of hatred, losing all color. This, he saw, was her true form - a gangly bramble-witch, ancient beyond belief, with sharp needle teeth and fingers like meathooks. Her staff was a writhing, biting mass of vines. The aura of power was incredible, and when she spoke, it echoed over the square.  
  
“You’ve made the last mistake of your life, boy,” came the voice of the _thing_. “That sword is nothing before me. I will devour it, after I have devoured you.” With one long-fingered, grotesque hand, the Agatha-beast began to gather a powerful concentration of void energy, preparing to strike Duncan down.  
  
_If only I could fight as well as Sigalda_, he thought, _I might have a chance_.  
  
But he couldn’t, and was injured besides. The thing reared back its bunched, sinewy fist, and then…  
  
Nothing.  
  
Agatha, quicker than Duncan could see, had been encased in a perfect sphere of translucent white energy. A magical bubble. Even faster than she’d transformed into her true shape, she reverted back to an ugly old hag-woman, knobby limbs bunched in a black cloak, and tumbled onto her kiester on the bottom of the spherical enclosure. She looked around in utter surprise.  
  
“You’ve been up to mischief, Agatha,” came a woman’s voice, cultured, smoky and deep. It echoed and seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at once. There was a crackle in the air and then, with a pop, a statuesque woman in magi robes and a headdress, both colored in brilliant pearl, seemed to appear out of nowhere. “You’re giving our peaceful country a bad name.”  
  
“Wilhelmina!” Agatha spat. “Curse ye!”  
  
“That’s _Wilhelmina the White_, thank you very much. I’ve worked too hard to become head of Garvant’s mage council for you not to use my full title.” The woman, silver-haired and matronly, though quite attractive and well-endowed as well, tittered as if the whole thing were just a joke. “It’s no wonder we voted to kick you from the council, Agatha. When you keep pulling stunts like this. And with our longtime allies, at that!”   
  
She turned to Duncan, dropping to one knee and addressing him kindly. “We’re so sorry for the trouble our wayward sister has caused. Rest assured, you’ll have our help rebuilding the country.” She gestured behind her, where an exhausted Queen Cordelia was being carried up to rest on the stage, her cum-soaked body covered with a modest blanket. Her eyes were open and alert for the first time in months, Agatha’s mind-numbing sorcery having been dispelled, and she looked tired, but herself again, despite all the humiliations she’d suffered.  
  
Duncan looked at the queen for a moment, and then crystallized on one thought. “Sigalda!” he cried. He was off like a shot, flying past all the assembled Garavant troops and a bemused Wilhelmina, running out to the place where Sigalda had been put on display. Agatha’s monsters had been defeated and dispelled, and there on the ground, in a circle of Garavant soldiers, Duncan saw the prone body that could only be the princess knight herself. He ran as fast as his young legs could carry him, calling out her name again, shouldering his way through the crowd.  
  
She was there, eyes shut, naked and unresponsive. He looked for the rise and fall of her chest but saw nothing. She had held out as long as she could, it seemed - long enough to stall Agatha realizing her plan was foiled, long enough for Garavant to arrive. But now, her body had given out.  
  
“Sigalda!” Duncan cried again. His eyes were filled with tears, and he fell to his knees at her side, pressing a hand against her shoulder, alarmed at how inert and cold her body felt. “Sigalda, you mustn’t die!” The tears began to flow freely, and he called her name over and over again, begging her to come back to him.  
  
“I’m sorry, son,” one of the Garavant mages said, placing a hand on his shoulder. “Those monsters did too much damage to her body.”  
  
“No!” Duncan wailed, then his grief turned to frustration. “She can’t be gone!” He looked side to side, desperate. She had always seemed to indestructible, he couldn’t believe it. Anything she had ever set her mind to, she had done. For all of their lives, Sigalda had been the one person he had trusted always to come out on top. She _couldn’t_ be dead!  
  
He would not accept it.  
  
“Sigalda, I know you’re in there!” Duncan cried. “You’re too miserable and grumpy and unladylike to die!” He drew in a deep breath. “Don’t you pass away on me, you tomboy! What will I do without your huge ass and tits to watch when you wander around the castle in that ridiculous armor! Do you really want to die single since no husband would have you, you arrogant man-hater? Are you going to let me get away with saying all these things to you? You… you big-titted, brown-skinned bubble-butt bitch!” He was crying fully, and broke down into sobs, leaning forward and embracing her shoulders and chest with his arms, feeling the swell of her bosom under his hands.  
  
_BONK!_  
  
He groaned as a fist expertly found his balls. Only one person could aim a nut-punch that perfectly. He opened his eyes to see Sigalda looking up at him weakly, he blue eyes gleaming with half-anger, half-relief. He had never been happier to be on the receiving end of a punch to the junk. She was alive. Sigalda was alive!  
  
“Thou art… a brat, Duncan,” the Princess Knight whispered, her eyes tired but intense, too weak to do much more. “Aren’t thou ashamed of thyself, to think I was dead, and _still_ grope my breasts like a horny dog! Once I regain my strength, I’ll beat thee black and blue!”  
  
He could not speak, only crying and continuing to embrace her, smothering his tunic against her cum-soaked boobs and not caring about the mess. Sigalda, Ein, and Queen Cordelia were alive. Starr was dead, and Agatha was imprisoned. He had saved them all, just as he’d promised. His tears were years of complete joy, and he did not care what anyone else thought.  
  
As he held Sigalda, Wilhelmina approached from behind him, with Cordelia and Ein in tow, both of them wearing large, comfortable blankets to hide their naked forms.  
  
“You saved us, Duncan,” Ein said, softly. “I knew you would.”  
  
“Ein, I’m sorry-”  
  
“It’s alright,” said Ein, softly. “I know you had to do it, Duncan.” And then. “I love you.”  
  
“I love you too, Ein,” the other boy replied. “I love you all.”  
  
“I hate to interrupt,” said Wilhelmina, in her matronly voice. “But there is a pressing matter to attend to. The noble houses have raised private armies and are marching on the capital as we speak, intent on restoring the crown.”  
  
“The people will not accept us as rulers,” Cordelia said, softly, her eyes downcast. “Not after what they have seen today.”  
  
“That is dangerous,” Wilhelmina replied, thoughtfully. “It may result in civil war. I am happy to lend my men to help rebuild Zwei. But to get involved in such a conflict-”  
  
“We can’t go back to the way things were,” Ein said, and both women looked over at him as the weary boy clutched his blanket about his thin body. “It is not fair for boys like Duncan to go hungry while royals and nobles take all they want. It will only lead to more violence.”  
  
“Sounds like you need leadership that both the nobles and the lower classes will accept,” Wilhelmina said. “A compromise.”  
  
“They will not accept me, after what they saw,” Ein said. “And I wouldn’t make a good king anyway.” It was the first time he had ever uttered this admission aloud. He paused, then added. “Duncan was the one who rescued all of Zwei.”  
  
Duncan blinked looked up at Ein. “The nobles would never accept me. I have no relatives, no history, no relations they can lean on. They couldn’t depend on me for favors. They would be afraid to lose their line to the crown.” He sighed, and the quorum fell silent for a time.  
  
“He has noble blood.”  
  
Everyone stopped and looked at the person who had spoken those hesitant words. Queen Cordelia, her face rosy with embarrassment.  
  
“What?” Sigalda moaned, weakly. “What did you say?”  
  
“Duncan has noble blood. He…” she stopped, and looked away. “He was favored of the king, and kept close to the royal family because… he’s a royal bastard.”  
  
“‘Tis impossible!” Sigalda cried. “_That_ brat?” She was struggling to her feet, her limbs wobbling like putty. A Garavant soldier tried to offer her a blanket, she snatched it, covered herself, and then shoved him foul-temperedly away.  
  
Duncan’s mouth was wide open. The queen had always been cold to him. Cold, distant, as if she resented his presence. Now it all made sense! He had been told he was an orphan and that his parents had been servants of the crown who died when he was still young. But in fact, he was the product of an affair between a servant girl… and the king himself!  
  
“But that means-”  
  
“Yes,” said Cordelia, softly. “You, Sigalda, and Ein are half-siblings.”  
  
Duncan continued to ponder the awkwardness of this revelation when Ein fell to one knee. “Hail to Crown Prince Duncan,” he said. “A servant and a noble. The new wielder of the greatsword Alsansam, and the King who will bring together the divided people of Zwei.”  
  
“Oooh!” said Wilhelmina. “This is quite a good idea! It’s sure to prevent civil war!” And the silver-haired wizard woman bowed as well, prompting the other Garavant soldiers to do the same. After a moment’s hesitation, Queen Cordelia joined them.  
  
“W-wait!” Duncan stammered. “Are you sure this is right?” He looked at Sigalda quizzically.  
  
“Have no fear on my account,” she grumped, crossing her arms. “I would sooner drink poison then bend my knee to thee, who was feeling up my corpse seconds after mourning my death! Thee could be king, god-emperor or the emissary of the heavens himself and I would still punch thee for thy groping!” Her face and voice softened. She spoked the low speech, out of respect for him. “But… you saved us, Duncan. If you wanted to be King, and… make sure the people were happy, and had enough to eat, and took their share of the riches of the land… I would support thee.”  
  
_And you made me cum so hard_, her eyes and blushing cheeks added, silently. _I know you have the will to be king, because you made me your servant with that big donkey dick, in those days in my cell._  
  
Ein beamed. “Yes, sister! That’s the spirit.” He paused, then beamed. “And I’ll be Duncan’s royal butler! He served me so faithfully for so many years, ‘tis only fair!” He seemed unnaturally excited about dressing up as a butler and Wilhelmina raised an eyebrow.  
  
Duncan smiled. Same old Sigalda - foul tempered but with a tiny speck of sweetness inside, if one knew where t look. He stood up, and she took a step toward him and grabbed him by the neck, hoisting him up. It seemed, with Agatha imprisoned and her spells dissipated, she was rapidly regaining her strength. “But I want my sword back!” she growled.  
  
“O-Of course!” Duncan replied, putting his hands out in front him in an warding gesture.  
  
Sigalda’s eyes narrowed. Her teeth gritted. Steam nearly flew from her nostrils. “Duuuuncaaaan…” she growled, her voice pitted with anger.   
  
Duncan looked down. One of his hands had accidentally found her breast, and was cupping a big handful. He offered a guilty smile. “Sorry!” he said. “Your huge jugs are too big, it’s really your fault!”  
  
He took off running, and Sigalda, her blanket falling by the wayside, gave chase, cursing at him and promising to kick his balls in, naked as they day she was born, droplets of cum spraying everywhere from her soaked body. Cordelia, Ein, and Wilhelmina watched her go, shaking their heads with wonderment.  
  
The reconstruction of Zwei would be an interesting time indeed.


	6. BONUS Beach Episode! (Subbed)

At fourteen years old, Duncan was the youngest king in Zwei’s history, the first to reign in a new era of post-revolution… and in dire need of a vacation. After what seemed like months of arbitrating the disputes of nobles and worker combines, finding compromise after compromise, he had been looking forward to this trip to the Zillian Coast for some weeks; exhausted from the constant tribulations at court and the political quagmire of the Reconstruction.  
  
“The sky is so blue!” said Ein, looking out the window. “And I can smell the sea air!” There was a high-pitched “Whoooooah!” from Mitzendorf, the stagecoach driver, as their forward momentum ground to a halt. They were right at the place where the road ended and turned into sand; meaning the horses could go no further without their footing being unsure. “Look at all the birds!” the former prince went on. Gulls were turning overhead, and had been following them in large groups ever since they arrived at the vicinity of the coast. The people of the area had lined the road to greet the royal procession, which included the large carriage drawn by seven powerful white horses - the stallion Thunderbolt in the front and six of his sires two-by-two behind him, as well as a rearguard of the newly reformed Knights of the White Lion.  
  
Ein had been very excited to go on the trip; mostly because he just enjoyed outings. Though formerly the crown prince of Zwei, he had renounced the position in the wake of the rebellion, and now served as Duncan’s personal butler and assistant. When it came time to unfurl a scroll and announce the arrival of Baron Dipplethorpe III and Asa Morden of the Third Farmstead Combine to the court at Zwei Castle, it was Ein who read out the proclamation while wearing black velvet tights and the puffiest of frilly shirts. He had taken to wearing his light blonde hair long, and often visitors had to study him closely to figure out if he was a girl or a boy. Ein, free from his former responsibilities, (which had included providing a further heir to inherit the throne) did not mind this in the least; many asked if it was appropriate for the former prince to be little more than a servant but he was quite happy in his new position.  
  
“Aye,” said Duncan. Indeed, the sky and the sunny afternoon were passing fair. But then he heard a feminine grumble in the coach, and a familiar hectoring voice.  
  
“Duncan!” said Sigalda. “Is this swimming suit really what was sent from the tailor? ‘Tis barely a suit at all, and covers hardly a thing!” Sigalda, warrior princess of Zwei, was holding the two-pieces of her scarlet-colored suit skeptically and glowering at him with suspicion.  
  
Duncan gulped. He tugged at his embroidered collar and smiled innocently while color rose in his ruddy cheeks. Indeed, he’d arranged for suitable bathing and swimming attire to be provided for their trip to the coast - a full day’s carriage ride west of the capital - and had requested the latest in bathing fashions.  
  
“This is _thy_ doing!” she growled, narrowing her bright blue eyes. “King or no king, thou hast not changed a whit!” Sigalda was one of the few members of the nobility who still talked in the high speech; regardless of Duncan’s attempts to get her to stop. He did his best to keep her out of the throne room during delicate matters of negotiation, not just because the old form of speech tended to rub the ex-rebels the wrong way, but because she had slain rebels by the hundreds during the leadup to the rebellion and that tended to make conversations with ex-sympathizers rather _awkward_. Still, even stripped of her link to the greatsword _Alsansam_ (which was now in Duncan’s possession and linked to his being), Sigalda remained a fearsome physical presence. She had taken up the position of trainer for the Knights of the White Lion and insisted on wearing her scant metal bikini and thong in most scenarios… including coach-rides.  
  
Duncan, who had been seated across from Sigalda staring at her perfectly-shaped, ironclad breasts for the entire trip, decided to defend himself against her objections. “It’s the style in Garavant!” he said, and then made the point that he thought should have been obvious: “And it actually covers more than your armor!” This was true. Sigalda had been renowned through all of Zwei for wearing the armor of the White Lion, which was really no more than gauntlets, boots, and a plate mail bikini. But for whatever reason, she refused to admit that this getup had been anything close to risque.  
  
“‘Tis not the same thing at all!” Sigalda shot back, and then hung the swimsuit from her hands, looking at it dubiously. It was a very cute swimsuit - a medium-coverage bottom with a waist frill, and two bra cups for her perfect, gravity-defying caramel breasts, made from some manner of elastic material. “My armor was a tradition of the Knights of the White Lion! A garb of sacred power!”  
  
“If it was so powerful, how come your huge tits were still bouncing everywhere whenever you wore it?” Duncan blurted with exasperation, and Sigalda immediately scowled clenched her fist and began rotating her shoulder, getting ready to strike a blow at the boy, who cringed away. Though he was the king, she seemed unable to treat him any other way than what she was used to - as her former squire. The sexual tension between them, born of necessity during the most troubling of times, had cooled in the wake of the rebellion. They had admitted things to each other in the most dire moments that both of them seemed hesitant to revisit.  
  
“Please, let’s not fight in front of the people,” came a gentle voice, and the fourth member of their vacationing party, Queen Cordelia, weighed in. She wore a white dress as flowing as her long blonde hair, holding a hand up to shield her fair-skinned face against the rays of the sun. “Mitzendorf assures it is a private beach ahead. No one will disturb us, and you can continue the discussion there.” Queen Cordelia had been renowned far and wide for having the biggest breasts anyone had ever seen; and Duncan had provided her with a swimsuit as well. What would have otherwise been a fairly modest two-piece would no doubt turn into an adventure - Duncan could just image the way her green bikini cups would struggle to handle the massive weight of her titflesh. Down below, the full-coverage bottom would nonetheless show the overt bulging curve of her wide hips and thick, matronly buttocks. Though Cordelia was no taller than Sigalda, the contrast between her soft, inviting, pillowy figure and the harder, more athletic form of her tomboy daughter was stark.  
  
“I’ll hold the horses here, your lordships!” Mitzendorf peeped from above. “The beach ahead is your destination!” The diminutive young mage was the last representative of Garavant Magic Kingdom remaining in Zwei. He had arrived with an engineering corp to see to the rebuilding of the capital… and then had just decided not to leave, and stay on as a civil advisor. Whenever Duncan asked his age, Mitzendorf - who only came up to Duncan’s shoulder - deflected the question. He certainly was as wise as any adult, and knew things about practical magic that most seasoned mages. It was Mitzendorf who had suggested the Zillian Coast as a vacation destination - and then begged to come along and act as a guide, since he was ‘familiar with the flora and fauna’ of the coastlands. Duncan had been happy enough to agree. He found Mitz, who practically swam in his oversized wizard’s robe and even bigger pointy wizard hat, to be quite amusing.  
  
There was a smatter of footsteps as Mitzendorf hopped down from the driver’s perch and moved to tie the horses. “Well then,” Queen Cordelia said, rising to step out of the coach. “Shall we change?”  
  
Duncan felt his pulse quicken. The recent revelation that Sigalda was his half-sister and Cordelia his stepmother did nothing to extinguish his desire to see their amazing bodies in the swimsuits. “Yes,” he agreed. “Let’s.”  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
Getting changed for Duncan was the simple matter of thirty seconds. He pulled his ornate royal tunic, slacks, and long johns off while standing inside the wooden structure made to keep his privacy, handing each to Ein and receiving the his swimsuit in return - a long, loose pair of royal red trunks that fell low on his hips, showing the tight line of his iliac and covering him from that point to just below his knee. Though he had encouraged the tailor not to do anything fancy, the man hadn’t been able to resist adding some gold embroidery and a stitched rendition of the Lion of Zwei on the side of the left leg. He had made a bathing shirt as well - for modesty - but Duncan refused it. He wanted to feel the heat of the sun on his chest and shoulders. He looked down at himself and thought the loose swimsuit did a good enough job of hiding his very large penis - mostly. He could still see the hint of it, hanging down the middle and then bending to go down one leg - but it would have to do. For years, Duncan had worn loose-fitting servant slacks to hide his endowment from others, especially Sigalda.  
  
Ein also had a suit - though Duncan suspected his counterpart had given the tailor some special instructions, because the Ein’s shorts were much tighter and the hemline higher, cutting off just below his very pert, very round buttocks. They seemed to be made of a black material similar to velvet, and up top he wore a simple undershirt with black horizontal stripes; one that dipped enough at the neck and had large-enough arm holes to allow a clear view of his puffy nipples and chest that almost looked like that of a just-developing young girl.   
  
“Shall we go and put a blanket down and wait for the others?” Ein asked. He had made a point of not watching as Duncan changed, and vice-versa. Though they were both boys of the same age, and would have been comfortable in nakedness around each other, the events of the rebellion had brought them closer than most boys ever would be… and for Ein, Duncan’s _huge cock_ would always be a reminder of that fateful time.  
  
When they emerged from the boxy wooden structure, they saw that Mitzendorf was struggling to place a large umbrella upright over a red and gold blanket. The boy was too short to get the proper leverage, and thus the metal pole would tilt this way and that before toppling over in the opposite direction. “Blast it all!” he whined, and then rolled up his wizard-robe sleeves to try again. Duncan couldn’t help but laugh. Mitz hadn’t even bothered to bring a swimsuit; he was still wearing the exact same thing he always did - a navy-blue wizard robe and an enormous pointed hat - despite the beating sun and hot sand.  
  
“Let’s help him,” Duncan said, and he and Ein approached to do just that. Together, they brought the umbrella upright, providing a patch of shade over the blanket. From there, Ein and Mitz moved several wicker beach chairs into place, with Mitz struggling and stumbling over his robes the entire way.  
  
“The friction of the sand makes it hard to push, your kingship!” he explained, in his typical engineering way. His brown eyes were squinted shut beneath the large, round spectacles he always wore as he put all his strength into shoving. He had a forest of freckles under each eye, and the brown hair under his hat was shaggy and curled around his ears.  
  
“You don’t have to call me that,” Duncan assured him. The three boys were standing, admiring the setup, when the draped on the opposite changing station pushed outward and Queen Cordelia emerged. The queen typically wore long, flowing dresses at court, sometimes with a rather plunging neckline, but otherwise generally modest. This was the first time Duncan had seen her in a swimsuit, and the results were predictably mind-blowing. Cordelia’s white, pale skin absolutely dazzled in the sun, and her long blonde hair, framing her face and reaching down her back to her waist, seemed to glow with the rays beaming down from above.  
  
Her breasts were cupped by the green bikini top, but despite the extra-sturdy construction, it was easy to see the weight and softness of her chest as it bounced with each step she look across the shining sands. Each one of her boobs was easily twice the size of Duncan’s head, and so meaty and big that the fabric of the bikini top seemed to indent into the flesh, as if her bounty were just waiting to burst forth and spill out for all to see. Her large nipples tented out the top in twin mounds that were as big as Duncan’s palm. With each step she took, they jiggled and bounced hypnotically. Boing. Boing. Boing.  
  
“Without sun protection, the queen’s fair skin will burn!” Mitzendorf announced, importantly. He began to rummage in his robe. Duncan felt like doing some rummaging in his pants himself, such was Queen Cordelia’s beauty. It wasn’t just her breasts, either, but her thick matronly figure as a whole - her voluptuous hips and butt filled out the green bottom enticingly, making Duncan imagine a fantasy scenario where he could approach her from behind, wrap his arms around her waist and just snuggle that big, round matronly rear! He bit his lower lip as his cock jumped in his trunks.   
  
Then the only thing happened that could have taken Duncan’s gaze away from Queen Cordelia - the emergence of from the changing hut of Princess Knight Sigalda. She looked grumpy as ever as she emerged, her spiky platinum tomboy haircut the pinnacle of a form that seemed utterly flawless. She reached behind herself to adjust the back of her bottom, pulling the fabric out from between her toned bubble-butt and trying to spread it over the round surface of her cheeks, with mixed success. Sigalda had such a round, gravity-defying rear and that her buttocks just seemed incorrigible and unable to remain covered by the suit. It clung to her like a second skin and Duncan could see the perfect, bouncy roundness of each cheek.  
  
Her breasts were likewise flawless - nowhere near as large as her mother’s but still a good deal more than a handful - especially for a king several years her junior. Her bikini top was less sturdy than Cordelia’s, for her breasts needed less support, seeming to stand pert and perky on their own. Duncan’s eyes effortlessly traced every detail, including a pleasing hint of underboob at the base of the triangular cups. Her arms were toned, her midsection showing unabashed abdominal definition from her days of training and fighting. She had powerful thighs, svelte and graceful calves and wrists, all painted in that beautiful caramel sheen that was her trademark skin color. The pads of her fingers and palms and her lips were a pale pink that was lighter than the rest of her body, and Duncan knew from experience that her nipples were the same shade.  
  
“Duncan! Stop thy staring!” she barked, and Duncan blinked and regained his composure, making a show of looking elsewhere.   
  
Mitzen reached out, having found a gourd from somewhere in his robe pockets. “This cream will prevent irritation from the hot sun!” he explained, and Queen Cordelia arrived at their side and took it in her hand.  
  
“Oh!” she said, looking at the concoction with a smile. “The wonders of Garavant truly know no bounds. I enjoy the sun, but I redden with such haste-”  
  
“‘Tis the devil’s alchemy!” Sigalda said, in a lecturing tone, walking up beside them. With her on Duncan’s right and Cordelia on the left, the young king had a perfect view of two sets of amazing breasts - one big and tanned, one_ really big_ and really pale. “You only need to go outdoors more often, mother - to have skin the color of mine!”  
  
“Well, perhaps Mitzendorf could assist me in putting this cream on,” Cordelia suggested. “It will be a nice afternoon to relax.”  
  
“Nay! I’ll not have the boys come to this beach to be layabouts!” Sigalda said, grabbing Ein and Mitzendorf by their shoulders. Both boys uttered adorable peeps. “‘Tis time to make a sand fortress, in the fashion of the great battlements of Zwei, before the reconstruction!”  
  
“I’ll help,” Duncan said, automatically. “With putting the cream on, I mean.” Sigalda’s eyes flashed and then rolled. She knew what Duncan was up to, but had the propriety not to press him into service to build her sandcastle. He was, after all, the king.  
  
And so it was that Sigalda moved out to play in the surf with Ein and Mitzendorf, while Queen Cordelia lay face-down on a blanket and reached behind herself with slender arms to undo the gold clasp on her swimsuit, letting it fall to either side. As she lay on her chest, Duncan was treated to the greatest display of compressed side-boob in all of creation. Her huge jugs were pressed into the blanket, compressing slightly into ovoid shapes, so large they spread out and could easily be seen from directly above and behind her. Her big, round rear rose like a hump as she gently moved her hair away from her neck and back and looked at Duncan. He did not need to be told twice what to do, and slathered his hands in slimy, slippery substance that Mitz had provided.  
  
The contrast between his ruddier, darker-complexioned skin and her fair skin was easily seen as his splayed hands began to rub the stuff into her back. Duncan did so by kneeling next to her, and his rubbing turned into a sort of massage, running over her back and drawing small gasps of satisfaction. Occasionally he ventured down to rub the oil on her sides, rubbing up against the edges of sideboob for heart-stopping moments. If the Queen minded, she never said anything.  
  
All this was happening against the backdrop of Sigalda and the other two boys; the Princess Knight was filled with boundless energy as always, taking sand from the wet surf and fashioning it into the foundation of a mighty castle sculpture, ordering Ein and Mitzendorf around like it was second nature. Mitz, who was, after all, an engineer, was quick to gainsay Sigalda when it came to her construction ideas, and found himself in trouble at once. Their arguments - mostly one-sided scolding - mixed in with the squawking of sea birds as Duncan moved from Queen Cordelia’s back to her waist, poured more oil onto his hands, and then-  
  
_Slap!_ Two palms on her bare hips, sliding inward to tuck under her swimsuit and rub all over those big, matronly butt-mounds! Queen Cordelia gasped again - “oh my!” - but Duncan didn’t relent. He was in teenage king heaven. Queen Cordelia - actually the Queen Mother, with her husband, Duncan’s father, deceased - had a butt that seemed like it wanted his fingers to _sink right in_! It was so heavy and big and he knew if he moved his hands horizontally, gripping big handfuls of ass, the cheeks would just clap against each other and go _whap whap whap whap whap_! He contrasted this tactile sensation with what he was watching in the surf - Sigalda on her knees, fashioning a rather unintentionally-phallic parapet with handfuls of sand, her flawless bubble-butt bulging in her swimsuit - and smiled with contentment. Two generations of royal women, two amazing asses in two different flavors.  
  
“Duncan! Thou art such a wastrel!” Sigalda called over. Ein and Mitzendorf were already laying on their backs in the pounding waves, exhausted from running around and following her instructions. “Do you not want to swim or is thy laziness too strong?” Sigalda pointed down the beach to where the sand narrowed and the waves crashed into a large formation of rocks with several openings into a crystalline hollow that led further underground. “Once this castle is built, let’s go explore yon cove!” She put her hands on her hips and took a deep breath; the rising and falling of her chest was as enticing as her foam-speckled, statuesque pose.  
  
It was at this point that Queen Cordelia tugged at Duncan’s swimsuit leg and looked at him. “Don’t you think I should have some cream on my front as well?” she asked. “It wouldn’t do to take sun on only one side, after all.”  
  
Duncan gulped as she began to roll over. His decision had been made for him. “Uh… I’ll be along in a moment,” he told Sigalda. “Just now, the queen mother needs my attention.” Indeed, he had important cream-spreading business to attend to. Sigalda again sighed and looked disgusted, as if she had expected no better.  
  
“Hmmph! I’ll go ahead on my own, then,” she dismissed him. “‘Twill be fine exercise! But don’t be too late, or I’ll clobber thee!”   
  
It was at this point that Mitzendorf sat up from his place in the waves. His soaked wizard robe was clinging to his small body and his large, round spectacles had slipped halfway from his nose. His cheeks were rosy with exertion. “The rock formations of the Zillian Coast are known to be beautiful,” he said. “But perhaps it would be safer to explore as a group. There could be deadfalls, or-”  
  
“Or the Zillian Kraken!” Ein piped up, from his laid-flat position, as a wave slid past and surrounded his body. “Old Galain used to speak of it carrying off men by the dozen, and dragging ships down to the deep!”  
  
Sigalda waved an impatient hand. “Ein, such talk is unworthy of thy royal heritage! ’Tis nothing but a tale to frighten children,” she stated, her face haughty. “No such beast has haunted these shores for generations!” Galain, her old swordsmanship teacher, had fallen in the rebellion, and his death, and final actions while alive, had been bitter. Yet he _had_ been prone to telling tales.  
  
Mitzen moved his askew spectacles back into place and found them foggy and streaked with water. “Still, perhaps-”  
  
“I’ll hear no more from a Garavant potion-pusher,” Sigalda interrupted, brash as always. “To think, their liaison to our court would be a child!”  
  
“I’m older than I look!” Mitz insisted, but his child’s voice, blushing freckled cheeks, and short stature certainly did little to prove the point. “I just thought, since I know all about rocks and caves, I could give a tour… after I rest a bit.” His voice seemed to lose power and deflate.  
  
“A White Lion of Zwei needs no guide,” Sigalda said, curtly. And just like that, she began to walk down the beach, her shapely feet cutting into the sliding waves as they leeched the shore.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
The sandcastle was built and stood proudly as the sun crossed the sky. It had a moat, four stout battlements and a high wall, all features that Sigalda had insisted upon and forced the two boys into service to produce. Ein went for a swim in the shallows, just off the shore, while Mitzendorf, overwhelmed from his duties as castle-builder and stagecoach driver, collapsed in his wet robe under a wicker umbrella, ten feet from Duncan and Cordelia. Soon his chest was rising and falling gently as he took a nap, his shaggy brown hair plastered to his head and slowly drying.  
  
Duncan knew that an erection would soon become impossible to prevent; it was written in the stars as soon as Queen Cordelia decided to turn over and present her huge breasts for him to oil up with Mitz’s sunblock concoction. When she did so, it was with only the most perfunctory sense of modesty. A horizontal arm pressed into her tits like a restraining bar, causing them to bulge out above and below, while she rearranged herself and then laid back on one of the padded wicker chairs. To Duncan, she looked like a woman trying to carry two big bundles of wash. Those tits were _huge_!  
  
“Don’t be shy, Duncan,” Cordelia urged, looking plaintive. “Apply the lotion.” Her swimsuit top, undone at the back, was hanging loose against her breasts and obscuring some of them… but not nearly all. The straps hung down like streamers over her forearm.  
  
Duncan poured a huge amount of the oilu, slippery white lotion on his hands and moved to stand at the side of the chair. When he pressed then against the very top of Cordelia’s chest, she immediately gasped. “I-It’s a bit cold!” she moaned. “But your hands will warm it up.” Duncan was struck by her beauty as he massaged her neck, shoulders, her collarbone, and the tops of those big, round milk tanks. He had only just come of age, enough to be considered a man, though he still had much growing to do. His first sexual experiences had been thrust on him during the rebellion, during which time he had been intimate with both Ein and Sigalda, though always under duress. During that time, Cordelia’s mind had been clouded into a state of despair and self-destructive rut by the dark magics of Agatha Wormwood… and Duncan had observed her in such a state, as she, no doubt, had observed him… and the work done by his exceedingly large cock. It was longer in inches than he was aged in years. He knew that Cordelia had warmed to him as a person, but he did not know what she thought of him as a man, and his relationships with the old members of the royal family - the former Queen, Princess and Prince - were complicated. Sometimes they were like friends, or mother, brother, and sister. Other times, he desired them, and he saw in their glances that they thought the same of him.  
  
Regardless, it would eventually be his job to continue the royal line… even if the monarchy was going to transition to something largely symbolic, he couldn’t be seen to be phasing it out entirely while nobles still held so much power. And if he did have to take a ‘queen’... who would it be?  
  
As he thought about this, he felt Cordelia’s hands on his wrists. She brought them down lower on her chest so his palms were cupped against her huge tits, even sliding them beneath the cups of her unfastened top. He felt her porous, heavy nipples bumping against his thumbs. He couldn’t help taking a deep inhale at the sensation… and dared to rotate the pad of his thumbs around those big, protruding nipple mounds. They really were massive - like tea saucers! Cordelia also inhaled and gasped at once. “Nnngh! They’re… so sensitive!” she breathed. “Please… make sure they’re covered, Duncan.” That same gentle, pleading voice.  
  
Duncan knew his erection was probably tenting his swimsuit and didn’t care. He simply lost himself in the act of kneading those enormous breasts, sinking his hands into them, making flesh bulge between his splayed fingers, squeezing those big fat nips, feeling the heavy, bouncy softness of them! Gods, he could probably make his hands disappear if he pressed hard enough, she had so much boob meat! Not only that, but the addition of the lotion made it oh-so-slippery and sexy and…  
  
“Oh my!” Cordelia gasped. “Duncan… you _are_ enjoying this, aren’t you?” Her voice was strained, for she had started breathing more quickly. Duncan looked to down to see that his erection was causing his suit to poke out in a very obvious tent-like protrusion that was actually large enough to poke out over the chair’s edge and cast a shadow on Cordelia’s porcelain skin. Duncan’s eyes went wide and stopped massaging to try to press his burgeoning boner down.  
  
“I’m sorry,” he stammered, used to making excuses for such things after all his encounters with Sigalda. “I just-”  
  
“It’s alright,” Cordelia said softly, and her graceful hand went out to the large bulging shape and gripped it, pressing the stretched fabric around the shaft and drawing the cylindrical outline into clearer view. “You’re so full of vigor. It must be because you’re such a young man.”  
  
“Hnnngh!” Duncan moaned, feeling the exquisite hand pressure of the highest-class woman in all of Zwei. The rebels had set out to ruin her reputation by having her engage in all manner of public debaucheries, but nothing could take away from her flawless, matronly beauty, not even a long, degrading bout of sex with a stallion. Now, Queen Cordelia - the genesis of many blow-in-the-pants wet dreams for youth all over the capital - was actually stroking his cock.  
  
“I want to take care of you, King Duncan,” she said, softly, looking at him earnestly with deep green eyes, her blonde hair framing her face. Her bikini cups had fallen away from her chest, exposing it completely, and as she turned on one hip, her massive jugs piled one on the other. “You must need relief, with all you’ve been doing to rebuild the kingdom.” Her hand dipped into his waistband and undid the golden button there, and a short tug afterward caused his suit to slide down and his cock to spring free. A hot rope of pre-cum was tossed in an arc as the head bobbed on the end of am arm-thick shaft that outdistanced Cordelia’s limb from wrist to elbow. She gasped as the semi-clear liquid splashed over her perfectly-smooth belly, leaving a glistening line.  
  
“W-wait,” Duncan stammered. “Ein and Mitz-”  
  
“Ein is swimming, and Mitzendorf sleeps soundly,” Cordelia assured him. Her face took on a look that was even more pleading than before. “Since being freed of Agatha’s magic… the clouds on my reasoning have lifted, but the needs of my body… they still remain.” She began to gently stroke his cock, her overwhelmed hand, not even able to fully encircle it, pulling short spurts of pre-seed from his large pisshole which she used to lube her further action. With the opposite hand, she pressed her fingers against her breasts, spreading a pocket of flesh in her inviting cleavage in much the same way an eager woman might spread her pussy.   
  
“Please, my King,” she pleaded. “Won’t you take your huge young penis… and make love to my breasts?”  
  
Duncan coughed as his eyes bulged out of his head, only regaining his composure over a matter of seconds. “I… g-guess I could do that,” he finally managed. It was the biggest understatement in the annals of the Zwei kingdom. He lifted a leg over the wicker chair, straddling Cordelia, and pressed himself into position. She used her arms to press her huge mounds together around his entry point - from her laying-down position, she could barely look over them to see that the lust and need in his face matched her own.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
As Sigalda ducked into the cave, her eyes adjusted to the dim light and she couldn’t help but gasp with wonder. She was a stubborn girl at the best of times, always hesitant to admit than anything could astound or surprise her, but in this case she couldn’t hold in her wonderment. All about the interior rock walls were glowing blue objects, which upon closer examination were patches of bioluminescent fungus clinging to the tunnel walls. These acted as a natural system of oil lamps, casting the bruised purple-brown rocks in electric blue. It was like nothing she had seen. “Hmmph! Duncan, thy laziness has cost you again,” she muttered, not understanding why Duncan would prefer to layabout on the beach rather than seek adventure. The sound of rushing water in the entry tunnels was audible, coming from further down, and she just knew there were winding pathways further in - perhaps an entire network of underground passages and rivers!  
  
Fearless as ever, she waded in. The ground was smoothed by eons of water run-off and cushioned by sand, so she had no fear of damaging her feet. The smell of salt and sea was stronger, plus a third smell, which she associated with wet plant matter. She rounded a corner, and as the light from the outside entrance faded behind her, the light from algae blooms only grew.  
  
After a further fifty yards, she came to the largest bioluminescent patch yet, in a large alcove filled with knee-deep water. She could see brightly-colored anemones and rocks in the pool, another wonder of beauty. The rock formed a circular enclosure, an antechamber perhaps twenty feet across, and a pinprick of natural light shone down from above where a narrow hole emerged in the ceiling. For Sigalda, who had spent much of her life in cities and castles; traveling on errands given by the crown (usually from one battlefield to another), this natural beauty was something welcome. It was almost, somehow, romantic. A secret place, unseen by other eyes for gods knew how long! She silently cursed Duncan once again for lagging behind. The two of them had confessed their love for each other in the days leading up to the final encounter with the rebel forces… but each time, it had been under a sort of duress, and since then, their relationship had been tenuous, despite her gratitude for his efforts in saving her and the others.   
  
Perhaps she had just been looking for the right place, and the right time. “Duncan, thou are such a nitwit,” she grumbled to herself. “Don’t you see that I…” Her voice trailed off. She could not even say it aloud to herself.   
  
She stepped into the pool and reached out hesitantly to touch a patch of stubby, tube-like fungal growths in a rainbow of colors. These drew inward away from her hand, contracting like some sort of muscle, and Sigalda gasped. All around, dozens of other tube patches lit up the alcove, somehow triggered by the reaction of the first. Sigalda’s tight, athletic body was bathed in a blue glow.  
  
“Wondrous…” she muttered to herself, and her words came out overtop a splashing sound that didn’t coincide with any of her movements. There was a shuddering that seemed to come from everywhere, and Sigalda looked around with alarm. The wall in front of her began to shift, and from the undulations of the surface, which rippled like muscle rather than wet rock, she realized that the alcove wall had only _appeared_ to be cave stone. In fact, the interior was the flesh of a huge creature, a creature that made a growling sound like a deep bass note, a sound that echoed throughout the cave. The bioluminescent patches were not moss or fungus but growths on the creature itself!   
  
In her mind Sigalda saw an alarming image - a glowing piece of bait on the end of an angler’s hook, and she as the fish, reaching out obliviously to her own demise. She realized what was happening, and took a step back, preparing to bolt from the cavern. The beast was turning and rising, looming all the way from pond to ceiling. Something gripped tight around her ankle, bringing back instant memories of the fiendish vines that Agatha Wormwood had used to imprison her during her tribulations in the dungeon of Castle Zwei. It was a tentacle - long, dark purple, and covered in slime. It coiled around three times around her ankle and calm in a blink, and was followed by others that moved to her opposite ankle and wrists. They were devilishly strong, and attached to a creature that was so large, she struggled to comprehend it.  
  
“No!” Sigalda cried, and tried to struggle. She was strong, her tomboy body sculpted and toned and glistening, but without the supernatural strength of the greatsword _Alsansam_ to fortify her body, she couldn’t manage to break the bonds of the tentacles. They had heads that were rather phallic; helmet-like and tipped with hole at the end from which a yellowish-white goo seemed to constantly leak. She was hoisted into the air by ankle and wrist, thighs spread, as the beast completed its turn. She saw it for what it was - a roughly spheroid body, amorphous, host to dozens of long, thin tentacles and several very large, thick ones. At the center of the mass was one large ovoid eye with binary pupils the size of her head. It seemed to glare at her with a horrid curiosity.  
  
The Zillian Kraken!  
  
_Glllllrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrmgh_, the horror gurgled. Sigalda got the sense it was sizing up a meal… if she was lucky. Or if she wasn’t… a mate. “Duncan!” she yelled, as loud as she could. To her dismay, they distorting, echoing sound of the cavern halls seemed to muffle the sound rather than enhancing it. “Curse thee, Duncan, come quickly!”  
  
One tentacle rose up before her face, crooked near the end, with the tip pointed directly at her face, like a snake waiting to strike. A rivulet of yellowish-white goo slid down the round prick-shaped head and down the slimy purple length. “No!” Sigalda cried, giving one last mighty struggle. Her calves and wrists bulged, the cords in her neck stood out, her tits bounced and her buttocks flexed in all their bubble-shaped perfection, but it was to no avail.  
  
Spluuuurt! A fat, yellowish rope of goo sprayed into her face, bisecting it, and then was immediately followed by another. A stench immediately filled her nose, a mix of acrid sea salt and muck and reproductive fluids. It was followed by another, and another. Sigalda gagged, tried to turn her head, but the tentacle around her neck made it difficult. She shut her eyes as her face was hosed by hot, long spurts of yellowish goo, quickly turning it into a mask. Bubbles formed around her nostrils as she was forced to breath in gunk-splattered breaths and then exhale. She gagged and coughed… and it was during one of these expectorations that the tentacle made a lightning quick dive into her mouth.  
  
Sigalda’s eyes went wide - goo-strands clinging to the lashes - as the girthy appendage stretched her jaw open and made her lips into a straining, tight circle. She made a heaving noise as the spurting length slid down her gullet and invaded her throat, before it began to thrust in and out, in and out, as if widening and tenderizing the passage, drawing a gagging, puking noise from Sigalda each time. She felt hot, slimy warmth painting her insides and looked down along the shaft leading back to the monster’s undulating body - she could actually see the tentacle bulging as deposits of semen-like goo traveled up its length to be sprayed into her belly. And as the first bulging deposit slid past her stretched lips with a sickening girth, she heard the sound from within her own throat.  
  
_Spllllrg! Spllluuuurg! Splllrrrrt!_  
  
A glance downward showed her what she feared… her tight, abdominally-defined belly was beginning to blow up as if she were pregnant! The monster was filling her with a huge, stomach-stretching amount of slime! Sigalda gurgled with alarm… and then noticed something else. A numbness. Not just to the physical ordeal she was facing but to the situation. It was as if a foreign feeling was invading her brain. She should hate the violation… but instead… it was beginning to feel… nice.  
  
Better than nice. Her throat, originally distressed, was starting to tingle and throb with unspeakable pleasures… and the part of her mind that knew what was happening as unnatural was rapidly receding, thrown under by unnatural chemical pleasure.   
  
_An… aphrodisiac…_ she thought. _Feels… so… good!_ There was a long, nasty _spluurting_ noise as another liter of yellowish monster semen was dumped into her guts. Her throat orgasmed like it was a cunt and Sigalda’s eyes rolled back nearly to the whites as she groaned like a whore around the tentacle, her voice echoing through the caverns while her taut, toned belly bulged into a curve.  
  
Through it all, her instincts of self-preservation still knew one immutable truth - if Duncan didn’t arrive soon, she was in a good deal of trouble.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
“Did you... hnng… hear something?” Duncan gasped, as he braced himself over Cordelia’s enormous breasts and drove his fat, throbbing meat bat deep into the oiled-up space between them. He was suspending himself above her by bracing his feet on either side of her hips and his arms against the angled top of the wicker chair. The former Queen was using her elbows and the insides of her forearms to squeeze her big jugs together around his shaft, providing an amazing channel of warmth and tight, jelly-wobbling softness that was like no sensation Duncan had ever experienced.  
  
The sounds coming from her breasts were so lewd - squuuuelch, slrrrrk, slllllick - and slapping sounds resonated each time his big, smooth ballsack and his pubis, olive-skinned and showing only the beginnings of hair, slapped into her voluminous underboob. With each stroke he flexed his tight teen boy ass and pumped his long pipe all the way into her tit-chasm... and they were large enough that they could absorb nearly his meat - sixteen inches at least - with only the bulbous head emerging from the top, just far enough to be in kissing and sucking distance of her wet, needy lips.  
  
“D-don’t stop!” Cordelia insisted, and hollowed out her cheeks to put some wet, spit-soaked oral pops on his leaking knob, making the lewd noises echo each time he pressed in and withdrew, connecting her slick mouth with his tip via strands of bubbly, glistening saliva. He had already felt her hips buck and her pelvis rise at least once, as she cried out orgasmically. “They’re so… so sensitive!” she moaned. “It’s been this way ever since… since Agatha cast her curse on me! I need… I need you to take care of them! Every day! It feels so good… to have you make love to these breasts of mine… as if you were in your marital bed!”  
  
Duncan thought of a future in which the former queen would recline for him, press her huge tits together and beg him to take his cock and give them a good plowing. It certainly sounded like a life fit for a king… and the warm, wet passage formed by her breasts, and lubed up by lotion and his own constant leakage of pre-cum, felt _so good_! Yet he _had_ heard something, something like a cry over the crash of the waves. Perhaps it would be best to-  
  
Cordelia’s hand crept around his hip and grabbed his buttock as she locked eyes with him. She had sensed his thrusts slowing as the wheels turned in his mind. “Don’t stop!” she begged, her green eyes glistening. “Please… just imagine my breasts are a pussy, my King. Fuck them as hard as you like! I need… I need my huge tits fucked by a big cock! It feels so good!”  
  
“Miss Cordelia… you… want my load in your tit-pussy, don’t you?” Duncan gasped, driving himself deep and letting her suck lewdly on his emerging knob for several seconds. She bobbed her mouth on it indecently, craning her neck down and letting her cheeks hollow out as she slurped and slobbered in his cocktip.  
  
“Y-yes!” she gasped, pulling back from his tip long enough to speak. She was rubbing her thighs together, obviously driven wild by the constant friction and pressure against her ultra-sensitive breasts. “I want you to impregnate my tit-pussy! For my young king, I’ll get pregnant with my tits!”  
  
“Nnnngh! Take it all!” Duncan gasped, and slammed his athletic, youthful hips down as far as he could, slapping his balls and pubis against Cordelia’s huge jugs and flattening them out a little beneath his weight. There was a gurgling, spurting sound as his cock, buried completely, spurted out a nasty, chunky rope of ultra thick ball-jelly into her crevice. His big balls drew up against his cockbase as he followed it with another, and another, and another, coating and filling the space between her massive, greased-up fuckbags. He braced his toes on the wicker chair, pushing himself further forward so his cock would emerge from Cordelia’s cleavage, allowing the tip to spew all over her face and into her mouth.   
  
“Nnngh!” Duncan grunted, and a thick white worm of chunky semen spewed into the former queen’s regal featured and bisected her face in a line. “So… good!” Each word was punctuated with another deep, percolating spurt from within his bulging cum-tube, and another massive wad blowing all over her kind, matronly face, leaving her wearing a mask. She moaned with pleasure and fastened her lips over his cocktip, sucking until her cheeks were stuffed and inflated with his load.   
  
Duncan gave a great exhale and pulled back, slumping down from his braced position to straddle her thighs and catch his breath, his cock sliding nearly all the way out of Cordelia’s cleavage. She let her arms fall to the sides and her breasts slid apart to reveal a huge lattice of chunky, thick cum strands connecting one big, fat milk tank to the other. Cordelia, in a state of rut, looked at him submissively and began to chew and swish all the semen in her mouth, before parting her lips to show just how full she was, the amount of semen enough to totally cover her tongue and most of her teeth, brimming at the corners of her mouth and slopping down her cheeks.  
  
She squinted her eyes, leaned her head back and swallowed thickly - once, twice, three times. Each time, her graceful neck bulged with the amount of semen she was taking down into her belly. Then, she wiped her mouth with the back of her wrist and leaned back in the chair, looking up at Duncan worshipfully. “Thank you for feeding me, my king,” she moaned, her tongue dragging a chunky wad of cum from her cheek and into her mouth. He hand slid down her thigh and found his softening cock meat, petting it with adoration. “Your huge cock… produces so much thick, young semen! Thank you for giving it to this old woman!” She looked shyly down between her breasts, making eye contact, her face still plastered with seed.  
  
“Look,” she breathed. “My tits have taken on the shape of a cocksleeve for you… that means, I’ve become your woman.” She examined Duncan’s face and turned away, even shyer than before. “You look so much like him when he was your age… my husband, who was poisoned by Agatha. Your father.” She paused. “I know you have no use for an old woman’s pussy, but… if you were to come to my bedchamber each eve… you could fuck these breasts of mine as you like. And… drink your fill.” Her hands moved up her cum-soaked tits and began to milk and squeeze her nipples, sending rivulets of thick cream sliding from the pores on her stretched, saucer-sized areola.  
  
Duncan’s cock, already hardening again, was a good indication of what he thought of this idea. But before he could say yes, no, or anything else, Ein came dashing up to the blanket and umbrella, his narrow chest rising under his loose-fitting top with harsh breaths. “Duncan, I heard- ah!”  
  
The blonde boy for the first time saw that Duncan and Cordelia were in the midst of rut, and turned ninety degrees, blushing neck to forehead in a rosy bloom. He avoided eye contact as he gave the remainder of his report. “Sorry to disturb you! It’s the duty of a royal butler to show discretion!” The fact that Duncan was in the middle of tit-fucking his mother didn’t seem to perturb Ein; the feminine-looking boy and Duncan had already established the balance of power between them, that fateful day on the scaffold. Ein, eternally thankful for Duncan saving the kingdom and his family, would not deny his longtime friend and half-brother anything, whether it was his mother, or if Duncan ever requested it, the use of his cute femmy body.  
  
Duncan slid his feet down to the blanket, found his swim shorts, and began to tug them up his thighs. “It’s alright, Ein,” he said, calmly. “Give your report.”   
  
“I heard a great cry from the cove!” Ein said. “I believe it was big sister - Sigalda!”  
  
“I told her it was dangerous!” Mitzendorf piped up, arriving on the scene. His robe was still soaked, his hat a bit askew, and his spectacles were fogged and caked with sand, leaving him all but blind. He paused to wring out one of his robe sleeves, then did the same with the other. “Perhaps there was a deadfall. We should investigate, immediately.”  
  
Duncan stood up, quite serious. “Yes,” he agreed, and then looked at Ein. “Tell the knights to bring _Alsansam_. And hurry.”  
  
Ein gulped and ran off to bring his report to the knights, who were hundreds of yards away, keeping the carriage safe. _Alsansam_, the greatsword of Zwei, was in a glass case that traveled in an entirely separate coach. Ein knew that if Duncan had requested the sword, he expected trouble.  
  
“Mitz, you’re on point,” Duncan said, his eyes serious. “If you have knowledge that might be useful as we explore, you must tell me.”  
  
“Naturally!” Mitzendorf agreed, trying in vain to wipe his glasses. “No better person for the job!”  
  
“I’ll come too,” Cordelia said, and her breasts swung like fat pendulums as she turned sideways on the chair and rose. She was still covered with cum, but began to walk toward the surf, where a quick dive would wash much of the thick discharge from her body. She had her bikini top in tow but did not put it on, giving Duncan an amazing view of her huge jugs, visible even from directly behind her, bouncing like jelly-moulds as she strode toward the waves.  
  
He did not enjoy it as much as he could have, though. Now that he was thinking clearly, he sensed that Sigalda might be in danger. _Hurry up, Ein_, he thought. _Something isn’t right_.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
For Sigalda, the orgasms were coming faster and faster. Smaller, more agile tentacles tugged and tore at her clothing, removing her top and bottom in seconds, before hooking under her knees and pulling her thighs apart, spreading her for the larger, thicker, more textures appendages. A tentacle as thick as her arm slid under her and pressed against her pussy, spouting semen-like discharge mindlessly against her opening, sliming her wet, throbbing labia before pressing inside. She felt it burrowing inside her and the sensation of her interior walls first going numb and then radiating with intense pleasure as the beast’s semen coated them. The tentacle in her pussy drove into her womb, slamming into the back of it and then coiling, splitting into two halves. One went into her left oviduct and one into her right.  
  
“Nnnnngh ...glllllllnnnnn!” Sigalda moaned, as she felt her most intimate places getting brutally violated. The tentacle began to bulge and undulate as load after thick load of monster scum was pumped into her pussy, blasting directly into her fertile ovaries and drowning them the paste-like cum that was laden not just with sperm, but monster eggs. She could now cry out any louder, for a similar tentacle was already fucking her stomach, curling up inside and driving as deep as it could, swelling her gastronomic sack with sludge.  
  
Two smaller tentacles slid up her nose, pulling it into the shape of a pig. The tips began to spray foul-smelling, backed-up monster semen into her sinuses, which sprayed back out of her mouth, nostrils and tear ducts in a degrading nasal creampie. The largest tentacle yet slid between her round, bouncing caramel-colored butt-cheeks and drilled into her anus, penetrating deeper than any other others, making her swollen guts show an outline of it rampaging in the curling maze of her intestines. The _splurg_ sounds from within her showed that this tentacle, too, was discharging huge amounts of kraken cum into her guts.   
  
Two tentacles with sharpened points poked into the center of her nipples and began to pump semen into her perfectly-shaped tits, making them swell slightly and drawing another orgasmic, muffled scream out of Sigalda. The pressure and feeling of chunky monster semen being spewed into her milk ducts, raping the passages with their course, sperm-laden contents, drove her quickly to another brutal orgasm. Not even her urethra was spared, as a slender tentacle poked into her pisshole and fucked her all the way to her bladder, making her piss humiliatingly all over the floor before cumming itself; filling her bladder with a chunky load of kraken jizz.  
  
The orgasms were becoming more and more constant, and the noises from Sigalda’s mouth more and more humiliating. Her mind was fading quickly, her thoughts interrupted by the near constant sexual degradation and climax. As this was happening, the monster pulled her close, still suspending her in mid-air, looking at her with that unblinking, alien eye while superfluous tentacles waved in the air and dripped with slime. Every tentacle inserted into Sigalda’s body was fluttering as reproductive goo moved along the inside to be sprayed into all of her orifices. The beast, long dormant, had found the perfect breeding factory, and intended to have her birth many young over the course of the following days and months.  
  
She would pass away after that, of course, but it would not be the first time the Zillian Kraken had taken a human victim.  
  
Sigalda was dimly aware of this, barely able to lament her own ignominious end while in the roiling, orgasmic throes of her predicament. She only knew that she felt nothing but pleasure, and if the orgasms grew any more intense, her mind would cease to function and her comatose body would be nothing but an incubation chamber for the terrible creature. The largest orgasm yet shook her, and, in the last extremity of her sanity, she gurgled out around the tentacle in her throat, a wordless cry for help.  
  
“Glllllllllllllllaaaaauuuuuugh!”  
  
A gleam of light cut through the air and the tentacle in her mouth was severed about a foot from her mouth, spraying ichor and then falling away. This was followed by four or five more golden flashes, sword strikes so quick and powerful they could barely be seen. The entire tunnel began bathed in a golden light, and the monster made a terrible mewling sound and began to sink back into the pool it had been lurking in, while severed tentacles fell from midair and from Sigalda’s stretched orifices.  
  
“Oh no you don’t!” Duncan cried, and for the first time Sigalda saw her savior, as Duncan, dressed in only sandals and swim shorts, lept past her and drove the point of Alsansam deep into the kraken’s massive eye, drawing a horrible cry from the beast and a bubbling mess of ichor from within the creature’s body, turning the pool black. The remaining tentacles fell flat, and Duncan withdrew his black-stained blade, holding it in two hands, and stepped back from the pool.   
  
The tentacles now dead, Sigalda fell to the ground, onto her back. “Sister!” came a cry, and Ein went to her side and knelt, taking stock of what had happened. Her belly was swollen, and severed tentacles were sticking out in all directions. Standing at the tunnel entrance were Mitzendorf - who had conjured a small lantern - and Queen Cordelia, freshly wet from her dive.  
  
If Duncan had expected Sigalda to collapse into his arms and thank him for the rescue, he soon realized she was in no condition. Her face was twisted up into an eye-rolling, tongue-out expression and she was pulling her knees up to her chest, on either side of her swollen belly, to expose her well-fucked, shaven tomboy pussy. “Breeeeeed!” she moaned, her rolling, crossed eyes making her look like a brainless invalid. “I’m a breeding saaack…”  
  
Sigalda grunted and her pussy began to dilate, disgorging a cum-covered, translucent egg about the size of two fists together. It looked something like the egg of a frog, and a mini-kraken swirled in the center beneath the cum coating. “Feels… so goooood!” Sigalda gurgled. Her pussy lips dilated again and she queefed out another, sending it rolling with a degrading, cum-spewing pussy fart.  
  
“She’s not in her right mind!” Mitzendorf exclaimed, his eyes wide. “I’ve heard of the fearsome neurotoxin of the Zillian Kraken-”  
  
“Oh my…” Cordelia moaned, putting a hand to her mouth. “To think a monster could put her in such a state!”  
  
Sigalda rolled over onto her hands and knees, showing everyone her pink asshole and her round bubble butt, then reached behind herself to spread her cheeks totally lewdly. Ein and Mitz both blushed and looked away. “I’m gonna have lots of monster babiiieees!” she moaned, drooling cum as she did so, and then a fat load of cum spewed out of her ass, along with a very large monster egg. _Splrrrrrrrtt!_  
  
“The monster has put eggs in her vagina and anus!” Mitzendorf assessed, and on cue, Sigalda moaned out orgasmically and pushed another egg out of her asshole, making the tight, hairless pink orifice stretch into a thin ring around the girth.  
  
“Look at me! I’m shitting out monster babieeees!” Sigalda moaned, and there was no light of her true personality in her eyes. “I’m taking a huge monster-cum shit in front of you all, and giving birth to my beautiful childreeeeen!” _Pbbtbtbbtbtbtbtbbt!_ A brutal, greasy sperm fart blew out of her ass and two more eggs pushed out of her anus, followed by another torrent of chunky monster cum. Her back arched and seemed to nearly snap with the force of her orgasm. “I love being a breeding soooooow!”  
  
“If she continues this way, she’ll die!” Mitz announced, looking serious. “The toxin of the kraken forces the host to sexual climax until they become comatose, while stimulating the breeding and birthing instinct! In a sense, all she knows or cares about anymore is having lots of monster babies!”  
  
“There must be some way to counteract it,” Duncan said. As much as Sigalda was haughty, ill-tempered and deserving of being knocked down a peg every so often, he couldn’t bear to see her mind completely extinguished. The sight before him was both frightening and sickeningly lewd - the most headstrong warrior princess he had ever known reduced to nothing more than a baby factory for a disgusting monster!  
  
“According to my studies,” Mitz replied, “Only the introduction of human semen to the mucous membranes can override the effect of the toxin.” He blushed. “Uh, that means we’ll need to, uh-”  
  
“Have sex with her?” Duncan asked.   
  
“Well, yes,” Mitz replied, sheepishly. “And quickly. I judge she has only moments before the effect on her mind reaches the point of no return.”  
  
Duncan gulped. What he had to do was clear, but he had just cum a huge amount not fifteen minutes earlier, and he wasn’t sure he could get it up quickly enough to do the deed. Especially not with the added pressure of everyone watching. Sigalda was moaning and dropping egg after egg out of her gaping pussy, orgasming more powerfully with each one. He saw a blood-vessel standing out on the side of her head and knew that the toll on her body must be getting very intense. But how could he-  
  
Suddenly, Queen Cordelia was kneeling at his side. “You can do it, Duncan,” she said, looking up a him with earnest, gentle eyes as she fiddled with his waistband. “I know you can.” She began to stroke his half-hard cock, framing her face beside it, gesturing toward Sigalda, still splayed on the cave floor. “Does it not make you aroused?” she asked. “To have a mother suck your cock… so you can save the daughter?”  
  
She exposed him and once against attached her lips to his long, curved meat, sucking and slurping loudly as Mitz and Ein stood awkwardly and avoided eye contact. Sigalda, who knew sexual activity when she saw it (it was the only thing she _could_ identify, in the sway of the toxin), called out to him as her mother, the former queen, slurped Duncan’s prong.  
  
“Yes, get on top of me and breed me, Duncan,” she moaned, her light blue eyes sparkling with lust. In the extremity of her unwilling sexual fire her high speech and fallen away and she spoke the common, low tongue, using words lewder than she ever had before, words unlocked by the reproductive need burning inside her. “Get down here and put your fat donkey cock in my bitch box! Can’t you see what a good mother I am? Look at all the monster babies coming out of my cunt! I need to breed! That’s all this body is good for!”  
  
“Hnnngh…” Duncan bit his lip with arousal. He had sometimes fantasized about Sigalda, headstrong and grumpy and untouchable, making herself available to him… but he had never quite imagined something like this. It was somehow wrong, to take advantage of such a sordid situation; and her invitation to him was meaningless, coming as it did under duress. And yet-  
  
“Please, my king,” Cordelia moaned, kissing down his shaft and sucking his balls, taking big pulls of scrotal skin into her mouth as she worshiped each swollen orb. “It is the only way to save her. To fuck her with your huge penis!” She was staring at Duncan’s endowment with admiration that was borderline obsessive.   
  
Duncan, driven past the point of propriety, walked over to Sigalda with his cock bobbing in front of his thin, athletic frame and knelt down between her thighs, pressing them further up. She seemed to be empty of eggs; her belly having shrunk down to a more normal size, but the effects of the toxin were still evident as she looked over her swollen, cum-plumped tits and beckoned him with a loving, needy expression that was totally uncharacteristic. Duncan knew all of Sigalda’s frowns, inpatient snarls, eye-rolls, haughty huffs and warlike growls; this particular submissive face was not her at all.  
  
“Oh yes! Thank you! Take that monster cock and scrape out my baby sack!” Sigalda moaned, her eyes doing everything but turning into literal heart shapes, so smitten was she with Duncan’s cock. “I want to have your children, Duncan! I want to drop out your babies one after another and be a good breeding sow!”  
  
It’s just the toxin talking, Duncan told himself, but it made him rock hard nonetheless. He speared into her and gasped at the lubricated, super-heated tightness of her pussy. Sigalda’s cunt muscles were exquisite and her teen slit tighter than a velvet bodice, with her own lubrication and the monster semen adding to the perfect fit. He pressed relentless into her until he crashed against her throbbing, dilated cervix and then shoved past it, stuffing her womb with his cockhead. Sigalda cooed, moaned, and stared at the womb-shaped bulge in her belly as Duncan’s gentle upward cock-curve hoisted it up against her skin.  
  
“Sigalda… you… would make a terrible mother!” Duncan groaned, gritting his teeth and beginning to plow her with deliberate strokes. “Unless you’re willing to shut that defiant mouth of yours and show some… humility! Nnngh!”  
  
Sigalda’s eyes rolled back in her head as Duncan pumped into her pussy and reached forward to grab and milk her cum-injected tits, forcing rivulets of sperm out of her pores. Her tits had always been very nice but were now even bigger than usual.   
  
“King Duncan, you have to do it quickly!” Mitzendorf called, peering over the edge of his glasses and holding his lantern aloft. “She has… uh… multiple places that need a dose of your semen, if she’s to survive!”  
  
Duncan nodded, thinking about whatever he could to make himself cum quickly. Gods, she felt good, he was close, but if he thought of something even more forbidden, something from his naughty fantasies of taming the wild warrior princess-  
  
“Sigalda, I can’t wait to see you barefoot and pregnant, making me a sandwich in the kitchen, you fucking bitch!” Duncan wheezed. “Maybe then you’ll shut your rude, tomboy mouth! It’ll be my pleasure… nnngh… to watch you… walk around… the castle… in your stupid armor! Showing off your big tits and ass with a big… baby gut! Nnngh! You fucking cumdump!” He felt bad saying such things, but it was enough to drive him over the edge, and he drove into Sigalda as deep as he could, digging his toes into the cave floor and pressing her legs back in a deep mating press.  
  
“Yesshhh!” Sigalda moaned, and wrapped her legs around Duncan, pressing her lips against his sweaty neck. They breathed in each other’s faces, talking more in gasps than in words. “I want your baby, Duncan. Give me your baby! Put your baby inside me! I want you, and your baby, and your big cock!”  
  
“I want you too! I’ll give you a baby, Sigalda!” Duncan moaned. “Get pregnant! Get pregnant with my baby!” He threw back his head and moaned, pumping cum deep into her pussy, filling her womb with his thick, virile load. Despite having cum so recently, it was nearly as copious as what he had shot into Queen Cordelia’s amazing breasts. The two royals, half-brother and half-sister, entwined there on the cave floor and orgasmed together; for just a moment, Duncan was able to forget the sordid circumstances and imagine their coupling as the culmination of all his pining. The grimy, silt-soaked cavern became a royal bedchamber, and Sigalda’s moanings were steeped in earnest desire.  
  
The feeling soon passed as he emptied himself, pulled out, and scooted a pace away, leaving Sigalda moaning, tongue-lolling and eye-rolling, looking anything but princess-like. A huge creampie of his thick sperm slid from her pussy and pooled around her buttocks… but if nothing else, it was confirmation that he’d done the deed and neutralized the kraken sperm with his own. But there was still work to be done.  
  
“I’m… exhausted,” Duncan admitted, his large penis flagging in a curve between his boyish, athletic thighs. “I need time before I can do that again.” His narrow chest rose and fell with ragged breaths.  
  
“That was only one orifice. I count… one, two… three… four, five… even six!” Mitzendorf said, narrowing his eyes and adjusting his spectacles with comical earnestness. “She’ll never survive at this rate. The beast has injected reproductive material into her breasts… and even the place she uses to pee!”  
  
“But Duncan’s penis will never fit in there!” Ein said, his eyes wide with alarm. “It’s far too large! And as for her breasts-”  
  
“It’s possible! Look!” said Mitzendorf, walking beside Sigalda and taking a magic wand from his robes. He poked downward experimentally with the slender, black length of wood, depressing the tip of Sigalda’s puffy pale pink nipple, inverting it and then forcing an inch of the length into the newly-dilated opening created by the alien tentacle. Sigalda let out a moan as alien semen leaked out of her breast around the wand. Mitz put a hand to his chin, blinking his large, expressive brown eyes. “Though I suppose the size _is_ an issue… waaaagh!”  
  
Mitz’s high-pitched cry came as Queen Cordelia squatted between he and Ein and wrapped her arms around, gathering them close to her. “Hmm…” she said, playfully. “Perhaps Duncan is too large, but you boys could do the job!” She reached up, took off Mitzendorf’s hat, and then pulled his robe up over his head, lifting it completely off as the boyish mage uttered a cry of muffled surprise. Meanwhile she tugged down Ein’s tight bathing shorts… and revealed the young prince’s exceedingly modest cock, only a few inches long.  
  
Mitzendorf was wearing only a pair of white cloth underwear beneath his robe, and he immediately tried to cover up as his freckled cheeks blushed beet red and his glasses fogged up. As it happened, both he and Ein had about the same size of endowment - the two penises were hairless, smooth, small, and exceedingly cute. Queen Cordelia cooed with delight. In truth, all this talk of breeding was making her motherly instincts go into overdrive. “Oooh! Such cute young boy cocks!” She snaked her head sideways and took Ein’s cock all the way to the balls effortless, bobbing up and down on it and making the prince nibble his pert lips in arousal. Meanwhile, she tucked her arm under Mitz’s cute, round bottom and pulled him close. He looked even younger than Ein - though he claimed to be ‘centuries’ old when pressed - and could only stammer when Cordelia switched sides and started sucking on his smooth, hairless root as well.  
  
“Mmm, such a cute little unpeeled dick!” Cordelia said, winking at Mitz. “I knew you were lying about your age!”  
  
“S-since the time of the ancients… I’ve… existed… nnngh!” Mitzendorf moaned, and even if it was true, he certainly sounded nothing like an ancient and more like an overwhelmed child as Cordelia took his whole ballsack in her mouth along with his shaft. After giving him a good suck and flattening her nose against his smooth pubis, she withdrew and started jacking both shafts, then gave both pert boy-bottoms a smack, drawing girlish moans and peeps from the both of them.  
  
“Now, you must do your best, boys!” she encouraged, then looked at Duncan. “You too, my King.”  
  
Duncan had been having trouble recovering from his mind-blowing cum into Sigalda’s womb, but what he saw next helped a lot in that regard. Ein’s fat, femmeboi bubble butt jiggled as he knelt at Sigalda’s side and pressed his leaking, sissy penis against the center of her breast. Mitzendorf, shorter than Ein but also possessing a rather round boy-bottom, did the same but on the opposite side. Both of Sigalda’s nipples were differently-shaped than normal as the result of the kraken’s rough handling - big, puffy, and inverted. When the boys pressed their weeping cock helmets against these, they burrowed into a diamond-shaped pocket of flesh as easily as they would a pussy, first finding the sunken tip of her inverted nip… and then going further, into the channel made by the beast’s slender tentacle.   
  
Sigalda immediately gasped as they thrust their hips awkwardly forward. The area around the penetration bulged and a mix of semen and milk sprayed out from a dozen small ducts in a circle around each cock.  
  
“S-Sister!” Ein moaned. “Sorry, but… it’s the only way!” He had his eyes squinted shut and was nibbling his lip cutely.  
  
“It’s… warm!” Mitzendorf assessed, in the same voice he had used to point out landmarks of the Zillian Coast while driving the royal stagecoach. Both boys thrust their hips forward and buried their small, cute cocks into Sigalda’s breasts to the hilt. Milk and semen squirted out all over their crotches.  
  
“Now, Duncan,” Cordelia urged, watching the boy-king’s cock rising. “Now, while they cure her breasts… you can put every inch of your cock deep in her ass!”  
  
Duncan looked down at the squatting Cordelia with surprise. The former queen was showing a rather sexually creative side he’d hardly associated with someone of her gentleness and grace… but then again, she, like many others had been victimized by Agatha Wormwood and the rebels. Perhaps it had brought out some changes in her. He moved forward and knelt in front of Sigalda’s thighs, poising his big cocktip against the pink, moist ring of her anus. Again, he had to push back her thighs to get a better angle… and soon he was forcing himself inside, biting his lip at the feeling of tightness and wet lubrication and heat… and the sight of his meat penetrating that sacred spot between the two round, bubble-shaped, tanned ass-cheeks he’d so often admired!  
  
“Nnngggh!” Sigalda moaned, her eyes still unfocused. Her face was twisted into a joyous smile as she stared straight up at the ceiling while boy-dicks pumped into her overloaded tits and a huge log of meat began to tear apart her asshole. “Yeeeeessssh! I want cuuuum! I want to have babies! Get me pregnant in my boobs and my ass too! I want to be a breeding sooooowwww!” Then, amazingly, she began to make noises imitating a pig, snuffling and snorting and squealing, while the three boys pumped their cocks into her body, establishing a tripartite rhythm that sent her gorgeous tanned flesh bouncing and undulating in time with the clenching of their smooth, tight buttocks.  
  
For Mitz, it appeared to be his first sexual experience, despite his claims of advanced age. His glasses slid sideways on his nose as she thrust and approached a climax. Ein, too, looked overwhelmed, despite his preference in sexual encounters being well-established in “other” areas, he couldn’t deny the sensations. The three boys sped up their thrusts and their breathing patterns together, as Sigalda reached out to caress and encourage them, lost in the sexual prison of her own mind, which seemed to permit her only to talk about how she wanted to _breed_, how she wanted that _cum_, how she wanted all of their _thick, baby-making semen_!  
  
Perhaps sensing that Duncan needed a quick push over the edge so he could attend to further business, Queen Cordelia moved to his side and blew perfumed breath on his ear as she whispered to him. “You know, you already made me your woman, with what you did up on the beach,” she said. “I’ll be happy to suck your cock clean after you cum deep in my daughter’s round ass!”  
  
Duncan’s eyes bulged out and he wheezed out a surprised breath as she shoved his cock deeper into Sigalda’s tight, wet asshole. “F-fuuuuuuuuck!” he moaned, his buttocks clenching, and he began to cum for the third time. Mitz and Ein’s higher voices joined him in a chorus, and Sigalda cried out as well, bucking under the weight of their bodies and arching her back. Duncan could feel shot after shot of semen pouring deep into Sigalda’s bowels. When Mitzen finally gasped out a final breath and scooted back on his round rear, a thick strands of semen connected his hairless cock to Sigalda’s well-fucked nipple. This contrasted with Ein, who only seemed to produce seminal fluid that was almost totally clear - a fact proven by his results on the other side.  
  
“Oooh!” the former queen cooed, looking at Mitz’s efforts. “The sperm of virgin boys is so thick!”  
  
She turned to Ein, adding: “And your worthless sissy cum will finally be useful for something, Ein - to wash the toxin from your sister’s body!” Ein blushed deeply, but didn’t seem to mind what his mother had said. In fact, the reminder of how inferior he was to Duncan… and even Mitz, who looked even younger than him, made his heart pound. He knew it was tied in some way to the reason he found it so much more comfortable to be Duncan’s butler or squire.  
  
Duncan disengaged last, and pulled his long cock out of Sigalda’s ass-pipe, leaving a thick creampie to slop out of her hole and down to the cave floor. As promised, Cordelia immediately took the length in her mouth. Stuffing inch after inch of thick, half-hard prong into her cheeks like a squirrel storing nuts. She loudly and lewdly slurped him clean, seeming to savor the taste of her own daughter’s well-fucked bowels.  
  
“There are still two… uh… orifices left,” Mitzen said, his voice weary. He was wearing nothing but his glasses, and was sprawled on the floor with his shaggy brown hair falling down over his ears and the frames of his glasses, looking as if he’d been through a storm. Without his robe, it was easy to see that the freckles below his eyes extended to his upper arms and shoulders as well. “But we’re… low on resources!”  
  
“I can’t,” Duncan croaked, wincing as Cordelia slurped his schlong. “I just want. It’s impossible. If I had thirty minutes, an hour, maybe… but here’s no way I can go again.”  
  
“Please, don’t give up now!” Cordelia moaned, sliding her mouth off of the hanging, coiling meat. “I… I know what to do!” She gripped Duncan under his thighs and tipped him back onto his shoulders like a farmer lifting his wheelbarrow. Duncan was thus left with his neck and shoulders on the ground, his buttocks in the air, his legs splayed, and his cock hanging down toward his face as he stared up at Cordelia.  
  
“W-wait!” he hissed, but Cordelia didn’t hesitate. She put two hands on his youthful, athletic teen buttocks and spread them, exposing his asshole, raised slightly and the same olive tone of the rest of his body. Without delay, she corkscrewed her long, agile tongue into it and moaned hot breath all over his asscrack and balls. “Fuuuuuuuck….nnnnnnngh!” was the only sound Duncan could make in response.  
  
“I know you can get hard again, my king,” Cordelia whispered, her huge breasts hanging down and pressing against his lower back as she sucked and licked at his hole. “If it will help you save my daughter - save Sigalda - please… think of me as your personal… your personal ass-cleaning service!” She sealed her mouth over his asshole and started sucking and slurping while wiggling her appendage deep against his bowel walls.   
  
“Queen C-Cordelia… you… fucking slut!” Duncan moaned. He had never expected her capable of such words; during her time under Agatha’s sway she had talked foully indeed, but Duncan had assumed that time was over. Again he wondered how much of that taint remained… and speaking of taints, his was receiving a world-class licking from perhaps the most voluptuous and desired woman in all the lands of Zwei. He could feel his cock, against all odds, hardening again. It seemed impossible that he could have a drop of semen left in his balls after three huge loads in quick succession… but the former queen was finding a way to bolster him!  
  
“Please… let me lick out your ass so you can shove your fat cock down my headstrong daughter’s throat!” Cordelia moaned. “We’re both your women. I know you fancy her, my king - more than an old woman like me. So please, permit to _suck your ass_. Permit me to _clean your shithole_ with my tongue and get that huge dick hard and use Sigalda’s _throat as a cunt_!”  
  
Spittle foamed in the sides of Duncan’s mouth as Cordelia disappeared under his balls and fastened her mouth around his anus once again, making out with it, kissing and sucking and rimming his ass like a whore, digging her tongue as deep as it could go! It wasn’t just her actions but the shameless hunger she was showing that aroused him most… she was slurping and moaning and sniffing like a whore who loved nothing more than to eat her stepson’s ass! “Cordelia… you… ass-licking, big-titted bitch!” Duncan groaned, unable to stop himself from expressing the words. “I’ll skull-fuck your daughter until my prick is so far down her throat, it comes out of her ass!” Cordelia’s plan had worked - he was hard as a rock again, and energized. He rolled backward, away from her, to begin doing what needed to be done.  
  
Sigalda was breathing hard, looking up at him with eyes that showed barely any recognition. “I want to breed!” she moaned, and fishhooked her mouth as he circled around to stand near her short-shorn shock of platinum blonde hair. Even being plastered in cum, fucked in every hole and giving birth to at least a dozen large monster eggs, Sigalda somehow still looked beautiful. “I want you to put a baby in my stomach!” she said, her words distorted by the fingers stretching her lips in lewd, desperate fashion. In her state of toxic arousal, she wanted monster eggs implanted in every warm, wet place in her body.  
  
“You arrogant bitch,” Duncan growled, bumping his cock up against her lips and then bracing his hands on her shoulders as he squatted down and spread it into her throat. “If you had just waited for us you wouldn’t be in this situation!” He wouldn’t dare say such things to Sigalda if she’d been of her right mind, lest he take a beating or worse. But this situation was the only chance he’d have to express his frustrations without rebuke. Doing so was almost as fulfilling a release as an orgasm.  
  
“Only one place left!” Mitzen announced. He was gingerly putting his robe back on. “But it’s the smallest one. Her urethra is filled with kraken sperm… and it will continue to be absorbed into her body, poisoning her mind, unless it’s neutralized!”  
  
Cordelia gripped Ein’s hand. “This is your chance, Ein. Finally your tiny, worthless dick will have a purpose!” She pressed insistently in the small of his back, but Ein only blushed shyly and knocked his knees together. His cock, spent from one orgasm already, hung limp and small on in his hairless crotch.  
  
“But I can’t!” he complained. “It’s… I mean-”  
  
“Hmmph!” Cordelia huffed, and then stood and stooped down to whisper in her son’s ear. The two looked remarkably alike - with similar gorgeous pale complexions and bodies with round hips… though since Ein was a boy, this made him rather unusual. However, as she continued to whisper, Ein blushed even more deeply with each passing second, and his very modest, smooth cock began to rise. When Duncan was jamming his cock down Sigalda’s throat and making her gag and choke, Cordelia ushered Ein forward and had him fall to his knees between Sigalda’s thighs, poising his narrow tip against the stretched, tentacle-fucked pisshole that throbbed, wet and sperm-leaking and inflamed, just below her clitoris.  
  
“It won’t fit!” Ein said, his eyes filled with worry.  
  
“The toxin of the kraken is an orificial dilator!” Mitz said, importantly. His high voice rang and echoed in the cavern. “It will fit, but you must act now!”  
  
“Do it, Ein,” Cordelia said, gently. “Lose your virginity with your sister’s pisshole! Finally, you’ll have sex with a woman… and I’ll do everything I promised!”  
  
Ein bit his lip, shut his eyes, and pressed forward. There was resistance at first, and he was terrified he would feel a tearing sound and hear a cry of pain from his older sister… but instead of that, he felt a lubricated channel of unbelievable tightness, one that stretched and opened much more than he expected. “S-sister!” he moaned, as the milking sensation of her piss-pipe overcame him. “Sister, I love you!” He began to thrust, burying himself deep, and as he did so, he saw Sigalda’s belly fluttering as Duncan’s long, rampaging cock, so much bigger than his, rammed deep in her stomach. That size, compared to his lack of it, somehow turned him on more.  
  
The boys cried out together - Ein shooting silent squirts of watery, clear fluid into Sigalda’s bladder; Duncan spurting huge, chunky blasts of wad into her guts, spurts that could be heard even over Sigalda’s gagging and orgasmic cries. The sensation was amazing to Ein, but what really put him over the edge was watching Duncan’s cock fuck Sigalda… and the promise his mother had made to fluff up Duncan to record size and guide that new king’s cock straight into Ein’s asshole on some future night. When they both pulled out, Sigalda moaned, gurgled, and then turned her head to the side and let a huge amount of semen pour out of her mouth and onto the cave floor.  
  
“Ein… thy… sissy cum… isn’t good for making babies… I… don’t want it… in my body!” she moaned… and then she reached down, used two hands to spread her mons and labia, and bucked her hips up lewdly as she starting pissing out his semen while moaning. “I only want… Duncan’s! Thine is… only good for… voiding into a toilet!” she moaned. She took a big, long piss, washing out all the contents of her bladder - urine, kraken cum, Ein’s thin sperm - and directing the splattery, thick stream directly onto her little brother’s flagging dick.  
  
“She said ‘thy’!” Duncan realized. “She used the noble tongue! It’s working! The toxin is losing hold!” His face was full of nervous excitement.  
  
Sigalda finally finished pissing and collapsed with a grunt, still drooling cum from her well-fucked mouth. For a moment it seemed she was asleep, or passed out. Gradually, the others rose and circled around her. After a few seconds, cast in the light of Mitz’s reclaimed lamp, her eyes flickered open.  
  
“I’m… rescued…” she said, weakly, uncertainly.   
  
“How do you feel?” Duncan asked, kneeling beside her. “Are you okay?”  
  
Sigalda moved her limbs experimentally. They seemed sluggish… and all her holes were burning from all the sexual activity. “I… don’t know.”  
  
“We must take her for testing,” Mitz suggested. “To be sure she is truly herself, and her mind, undamaged by the ordeal!”   
  
Duncan and the other hauled Sigalda to wobbly feet. “So,” he asked, casually. “Did you mean what you said about wanting to have my baby?”  
  
Sigalda looked at him and her weary face seemed to soften for a moment. “Oh, Duncan…” she said, gently, and leaned toward him…  
  
_BONK!_  
  
Duncan went down, clutching his balls and moaning. Sigalda’s fist had expertly found his nutsack, and now she glowered down at him with blazing blue eyes. “I’d sooner dive from a parapet than give birth to thy child!” she admonished him, her muscled, toned body standing out in the lantern glimmer. “And I should pummel thee for tarrying so long on the beach while I faced a dangerous foe!”  
  
“Oh my!” Cordelia gasped, putting a hand to her mouth.  
  
“She’s… nnnngh… fine!” Duncan gasped, cradling his wounded balls. The rest of the royal family, and Mitz, were gathered in a semi-circle, and soon he would join them to leave the cave as a group, spent but, luckily, unharmed. “She’s fine. Same... old... Sigalda.”  
  
In spite of it all. He wouldn’t want it any other way.


End file.
